Henry in his healthier days
I should have known that something was wrong when our geriatric rooster, Old Man Henry, started sleeping in the nesting box.
At first Rick and I just figured it was cold and that he’d go back to his low senior citizen’s perch in the spring.
But when I found Henry sleeping smack dab on top of three eggs, we knew something was not quite right.
From then on, Henry was always on the eggs. Every morning I found myself in the odd situation of having to reach under the rooster to gather the eggs from the nesting box.
As I’ve said before, things are never normal at our place. Not too long ago we had the world’s first chicken-feed-addicted pet sheep. Now here we were with the world’s first broody rooster.
But we’re very accepting at our house. I was careful never to shame Henry for his unroosterly behavior. I just reached under him each morning and said, “Thank you for the eggs, Henry.”
After all, if a poor decrepit rooster finds a last glimmer of joy in pretending he’s a sprightly young hen, who am I to judge?
What was truly amazing was that when Henry began sleeping on the floor of the chook house, the hens started laying their eggs where he slept so he could look after them!
It was clearly some kind of gender-bending chicken conspiracy.
Where’s the rooster?
Then, one Saturday morning toward the end of July, I went out a little late to feed the chickens. All five of our hens scolded me with loud squawks and squeaks. But Old Man Henry, rather uncharacteristically when food’s involved, was nowhere to be seen.
I did the first thing you do when you realize your rooster’s missing. I checked to see if he was trying to hatch some eggs.
I looked inside the chook house and saw the old man back in a corner, sitting with his legs thrust out in front of him. I’d never seen him sit like that before.
As I walked over to him, he began struggling, but it seemed his legs wouldn’t go where he wanted them to. He flapped his wings and squirmed, but Henry could no longer walk.
Old Man Henry couldn't stand
I picked him up gently and took him out to the chicken run. As soon as I set him down in front of some chicken feed, he fell back on his tail feathers again.
When he tried to walk, he just went scooting backwards until he was up against some chicken wire. He looked around strangely, as if to ask why his legs weren’t right.
I held him over the food and the water, but he wanted none.
Most people, I suppose, might have chopped off their rooster’s head right then and there. But we’re not most people – even bloodthirsty Rick refused to do it.
Instead I phoned Aussie Bronwyn, the neighborhood High Priestess of Chicken Wisdom.
“Oh,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Does he seem to be in pain?”
“No. He’s looking around and seems very alert. He’s not frothing at the mouth or anything.”
Aussie Bronwyn sighed. “It would be a shame to traumatize him with chopping off his head. I don’t think you need to worry. I suspect he won’t be here in the morning.”
That night, I set Old Man Henry up on a thick bed of extra pea straw in the corner of the chook house.
“Goodnight, Henry,” I said, and closed the door.
Henry under the weeping cherry
Early the following morning I went out to the chook house and opened the door, absolutely certain that I would find Henry dead.
There he was, exactly as I’d left him, looking around and blinking, perfectly alert. When I tried to give him food and water, he once again wanted none.
Surely, I figured, he’d be gone the next morning. After all, he hadn’t eaten in two days, and the hens had started laying their eggs in the nesting box again. Surely it was some kind of sign? Had they given up on him?
Days and days
On the morning of the third day, Old Man Henry was exactly the same. I brought him an apple core, which I know he loves. He actually took one large bite, but then refused to eat any more. When I held him over the water, he took several sips.
That night I checked on him one last time before going to bed, and I found that our little grey Aracauna hen, Francoise, was not in her normal spot on the top perch.
She was sleeping cuddled up next to Henry down in the hay. The two of them are the oddballs in our flock. Francoise has been out of sorts since Rick and I culled her sick friend Natasha (which we regret). Clearly Francoise had some kind of bond with Henry.
The next morning, on day four, I opened the chook house door to find that Henry – surprise, surprise – was still alive.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Rick said. “He’s like the fat lady in the opera, taking forever to die.”
That evening I got a call from Suzanne, our neighbor who’d given us Old Man Henry. She’d heard about Henry’s plight.
After I filled her in on the details, she said, “He always was a stubborn bird. People don’t normally have this problem. Roosters usually just drop off their perch and die.”
“In the past four days he’s had one bite of apple and two sips of water,” I said. “What’s he living on? Air?”
Suzanne offered to call the vet the next day to see if Henry could be put down.
“I don’t think even that will kill him,” I told her. “He absolutely refuses to die.”
Henry and Francoise, October 2009
Suzanne and I agreed to talk the following evening, after she’d talked to the vet.
The truth was that I wanted the old man to go quietly. I didn’t want to terrify him by carting him off to the vet in a cardboard box.
Then the phone rang again. It was Aussie Bronwyn, calling to check on Henry.
Let me just say it’s entirely possible that no rooster in the history of poultrydom has ever had so many people fussing over him.
That night, once again, little Francoise slept next to the Henry in the hay.
And guess what? In the morning, the old rooster was still alive.
But when I opened the chook house door after coming home from work on Day Five of Henry’s Long and Tragic Death, things had finally changed. The rooster I thought would never die was actually leaning forward with his head down close to the pea straw, without much life in him.
When Suzanne called that evening, I explained the situation. She said, “Well, I suspect he won’t be here in the morning.”
Yeah right. I’d heard that one before.
Day six
On the morning of day six, when I opened the chook house door, I saw that Old Man Henry was unnaturally still.
I leaned down and touched him, and then I knew. After 11 long and happy years on the planet, Old Man Henry had finally gone to the Great Chook House in the Sky.
I picture him surrounded with a harem of young angel hens, his legs working perfectly fine.
Henry's tree
I buried Old Man Henry under the oak tree behind the hay shed. There was a big grey stone nearby, which I put on top of his grave.
From now on, Rick and I will think of that oak as ‘Henry’s tree.’
There’s been almost no change in the behavior of our five hens since Henry left the flock, and some would say that’s not surprising, that animals simply don’t grieve.
But I have only this to say.
Now, a full two weeks later, little Francoise is still sleeping in the same spot where she slept the last few nights of Henry’s life – right next to place where the old bird died.
Have you ever had a much-loved pet die?
PS – Thanks to all the really nice people who sent condolences on Facebook and Twitter when I posted about Henry’s death.
__________
Podcast on Radio NZ website
Henry and Francoise: a love story (3:09)
In an interview with Radio NZ, I tell the story of the late blooming love of Old Man Henry and Francoise the Aracauna.
Related posts
- Old Man Henry and the chook house race wars
- The sweet taste of chicken feed
- Shovel and axe: having to cull a sick chicken
- Donuts every day: the death of our beloved pig
I looked up into the sky tonight, saw the full moon and got very excited because I knew there would be a post from you.
Other than the humour you frequently bring to your blog, the emotional aspect is another reason MOM is always worth a read.
There have been a few times where your blogs have brought me close to tears, while you describe in vivid detail, the death of a loved one: animal or human. This post was no exception.
The descriptions of events are always so well written it often makes me feel like I’m there, experiencing all the emotions you and Rick are feeling.
Henry was probably the most famous rooster that ever lived, with, as you said, more people caring for him than have ever cared for one of his kind before.
Over the course of the blog, every one of the readers has got to know Henry like he was their own chicken and some of us were even lucky enough to meet him.
I hope he and Natasha are reunited in “the great chook house in the sky” where Henry can enjoy the immortality of the fame you brought him.
Rest in peace Henry.
Hope you’re well Jared.
T.
Ah, such a touching recount of his final days. Your words, combined with the beautiful photographs, have brought a little tear to my eye. Rest in peace dear Old Man Henry and I hope Francoise bears up okay x
I’m so sorry to hear about Henry. But it does sound like he’s had such a wonderful life, and been so well looked after in his final years in his 5 star hotel. Well done to all of you! RIP Henry.
I also miss my weekly dose of MOM, surely you could make up some stories, so we can have an update twice a month …… once a month is too long to wait …………
Aw, big licks from Scooby my 9 year old chocolate Labrador, part time Martinborough rural dog and part time Wellington city slicker.
Oh, what a heartwrending account – I so feel for you, having had a similar-ish slow demise of our lovely bantam Bernard last year. Aren’t poultry just the best? Thanks for sharing. Had tears in my eyes. Chickens are smart. And tough. And loyal : )
This was a really sweet and sad story that I’m glad I didn’t miss reading. I’m glad to hear he had a buddy to sit with him in the end and that he wasn’t carted off to the vet.
I must admit, when I realized it was a story about the death of a chicken, I wasn’t expecting much. I just slaughtered a whole bunch on Sunday, so my sympathies are pretty low. :)
However, as usual you managed to pull a tear from me. I will say, I’d be sad if Rocky, our rooster, were to die. He’s pretty new, though, just over a year old. I suspect he’ll be harassing the ladies for quite a few years before we have to worry.
Thank you for a lovely story, once again. And I join in the clamours of others… a month is just too long to wait! :)
Jared, I need to be really GOOD in this life so that in my next life I can come back as one of your chickens. Srsly. Good on ya.
Aaahh, so lovely, so gently poignant. The gender bending, the hens making room for his odd behaviour, the harem of angel hens… best quote of all is ‘It would be a shame to traumatize him with chopping off his head.’
Soooo… guess I have missed something… always the way… do you only post when it’s a full moon?
Hi Caren – Yeah, I decided to do posts on the full moon. But I reserve the right to do ‘bonus’ posts between! :-)
Oh, poor Henry! I know what it’s like to fall down and be unable to walk. A passenger in a broken-down vehicle that can’t be traded in.
I’m happy that he got to experience some male-female balance in his final days, plus Francoise at his side.
“Old Man Henry” was the first story ever I read in MOM and I was hooked ! Can’t wait for the moon turning full again….
I’ve always wanted a chicken.(Our homowners Association won’t allow it)…So I’ve been especially fond of your chicken stories…so much so that I’ve been purchasing eggs from a local who has a dozen hens…Those chickens are actually affectionate!…Love to be picked up and will nuzzle to get a stroke on the head..I’ve especially loved the elegant rooster…the way he struts..so macho, so COCKY!…Henry was a lucky old man.
Always a loss – although rather less traumatic than loosing a much loved dog or cat, I suspect. Chickens don’t really bond that well, I find!
One has to ask though – why anyone wanting their chickens purely for eggs would actually have a Cockerel?
They are only necessary if you want baby chickens. I prefer my breakfast eggs unfertilised, personally.
Hi George – I agree completely about the unfertilized eggs. The only reason we took Old Man Henry was because he was so old he was impotent!
I’m so sorry to hear about Henry. It sounds like he was a very well-loved rooster!
Hi there Jared,
This was such a touching story. It was very kind of you to let Henry die in peace without trauma and leave this world his way.
Contrary to popular belief, farm animals have more human characteristics than we give them credit for. When I was growing up, I had a ‘pet’ cow. It actually did not belong to me but to a friend whose parents owned a ranch. We went out bringing in the calves born too early in hopes of saving them from the cold. We were too late for some but it felt good to save those we could.
One year, one of the calves became attached to me and when we finally got them to the safety of the huge barn, this calf would not leave my side. It became mine by proxy. I would visit it all the time and take care of it. As she got older, there was talk about sending her to slaughter but I worked out a deal with my friend’s dad where I would work off what she would have fetched at auction. Over the years, we had a very unique relationship. Then, one day, I could not find her. She got sick and found a spot to die peacefully.
Your story brought all this back so clearly and vividly.
Thank you Jared and always I wish you the very best,
Ben
What an adorable story. How nice of you to work off her auction price to save her life.
I’ve been preoccupied with summer on Long Island and have been neglecting your posts…how sad to come back to find a dead Henry. My deepest condolences and sympathies. He was a good bird.
I actually just got a bit teary. This is ridiculous. You write very well and I need to go to bed. And to Moore Wilson’s to get some of your oil. Great blog! Mary (a Virginian expat in Wellington)
LOL – thanks Mary.
Poor Henry, he had a good life and good people! He was spectacular! I would like to find one as gorgeous-What breed of Rooster was Henry??
Hi Michele – Yes, he was a good rooster. I’m afraid he was a mongrel of rather dubious heritage. God only knows what his family tree held!
I sent your link to several chicken experts and they believe that it is very possible that Old Man Henry was a gorgeous and prize worthy ‘Red Pyle’ Old English Game Rooster
How funny to think the old mongrel might have had a pedigree!