The Chicken That Didn’t Die

It was hot that day.

Pretty much every day in the summer in Ohio has become a “hot day,” assuming it’s not a day where the rain comes down in buckets as the creeks and ditches rise and the flash flood warnings become so familiar you stop flicking open your weather app to look at them.

But this was a while back, this particular hot day — the heat-index-above-100-degrees kind. It was my first summer with the birds and I was hovering over them like the mother hen, checking frequently to make sure they weren’t overheating. That morning, a little after 10 a.m., it was already above 80 degrees. I went out to collect eggs, feed mealworms and do a head count.

Chickens crowded the door as usual when I brought the mealworms in. I counted birds as they snapped up the treats.

There were supposed to be 11 chickens the pen. I counted 10. Hmm.

I counted again: 10. With panic rising, I looked closely at each bird, trying to decide who was missing.

There was Sassy, the pretty dark-brown Easter Egger. I counted all three of the Barred Rocks; four gray Australorps; Trillium, the splash Australorp; and Lady, another one of the Easter Eggers. But the third Easter Egger — Chestnut — was missing. Chess is distinct because she looks like a battery: Gray body feathers and a copper head and neck.

I peered in all the pen’s hiding places. No Chestnut.

I crouched down to look through the hen door to the inside of coop. I could just make out a terrifying sight: Chess, lying in the nesting box with her head draped over the edge, eyes closed.

I yelled “Chess!” and knocked on the coop wall. No response. She was too far inside the coop for me to reach, lying completely still with her head flopped out of the box in that downward position, beak closed. I could just make out her eyelids in the dim light of the coop. They didn’t twitch. “Chestnut!” I called again, rattling the coop door. She remained still.

I took a break to text my husband, hands shaking, that Chess had died in the nesting box.

This was the part of chicken keeping I hadn’t been looking forward to. I’d read all the forum and Facebook group stories: hens dropping dead out of nowhere, egg-bound, heat stroke, undisclosed illness or heart failure. But it had never happened to one of mine. Until now, apparently.

I got what I needed — gloves, a trash bag, and considered whether I had anything in the medicine and/or liquor cabinet to calm my nerves. I went back out to the pen and stood outside the coop for a second, trying to psych myself up for my first chicken carcass removal. Then I opened the lid to the nesting box.

And there was Chess.

She was staring straight up at me: Bright-eyed and completely alert. She looked as if I’d interrupted what had probably been a fine nap.

I picked her up and examined her. She was in great shape — perfectly healthy and ready for snacks. I put her down, watched her shake her feathers and run off to her friends, and I tried to get a handle on the scene.

“Just kidding!” I texted my husband. “Chess is fine!”

I went back to the house, looking to see what was in those cabinets.

🌀 What’s happening

Not a ton of writing time lately—this stretch of summer has been full of kids’ camps, tending to an aging dog, and catching up on some reading (“All Fours” 👀 and “The Day The World Came to Town”). I’ve been squeezing in bits of writing when I can. Last week, I did get out to meet some local creative folks at a nearby brewery, which was a refreshing and entertaining time. I’ll have some reading to share from my list in my next missive, thanks to that get-together.

🧠 What I’m working through as a writer

Right now, I’m trying to write fiction that feels both otherworldly and believable. Not an easy task, but it’s one of my favorite creative challenges. That edge where the strange and the real intersect is the space I’m drawn to as a short story writer. A good collection of this type is Ray Bradbury’s “Long After Midnight” — it’s worth snagging or borrowing a copy if you can.

👁 Candyland: A sneak peek

This story started in a college short story class I took while I was finishing my psychology degree in 2022. Set a few decades back in Los Angeles, its time and place are different from the history-laden Appalachian hills I usually love exploring. It’s a favorite—slowly evolving toward a spot in an upcoming collection.

More soon,

Sarah