Twinkydink had been ailing for a long time. Last year her comb went grey. That’s a sure sign that internal organs were shutting down.

And yet, she went about her days in an unobtrusive way. Once a bossy hen of top status, she slid gracefully into the role of friend of the even slower Buffy. The young hens liked her. Twiggy took a shine to Twinkydink.

Twinkydink continued to eat and drink. She still roosted, albeit on a lower rung. About two weeks ago she took a noticeable turn for the worse. She slept more. A hen who rarely sat down, I now noticed her huffed up and resting in the sun. She was three months shy of turning nine years old. Ancient for a hen. But, still, she ate and drank and made her way in and out of the coop at will.

At the end of last week I could tell that she was on her last days. Twinkydink was unsteady on her feet, a first in her very long life. Two days ago she slept in the nesting box, which is something she’s never done. Still, she ate and drank. On Friday, despite the bitter cold, she stepped outside and ate snow. She chose to chill her body down. Perhaps this made her feel better?

I put put her into a cozy nest in the barn, thinking that she would die quietly. An hour later, checking on her, she was up and walking around and insisting that she rejoin the flock. This old bird was going to die on her own terms.

I had a choice to make. I knew that you’d see her, staggering around, and, what with the temperatures in the single digits, you might see her freeze. I could have removed her from the camera’s view. But, I wasn’t going to close her into a place she didn’t want to be. Twinkydink didn’t want to be comfortable and warm. She clearly wanted to be outside. After eating breakfast, she walked out the pop door and sat down in her favorite place near the ramp. Right in front of the camera. I apologize for worrying some of you, but it’s where she wanted to be. For awhile, Twiggy stood on the ramp in the sun, seeming to keep her friend quiet company. No one bothered Twinkydink. No one pecked her. She kept her status to the end. I had to be gone most of the day, and got back late in the afternoon. She was still alive, but barely. After the Ladies went in to roost, I carried Twinkydink, who felt barely heavier than a handful of feathers, inside to be with the flock when she died, which she did a few hours later.

Twinkydink left on her terms.

If you get a flock of hens for your backyard, you’ll have to be able to handle death. It’s different than you might have ever experienced with your household pets. First of all, there’s more of it. A flock of six birds means six deaths, likely within a half-dozen years. A sick cat or dog is taken to a veterinarian, who you’ll be able to pass much of the burden onto. For your dog, you might decide on a valiant (and expensive) course of action, making you feel that you’ve done something. But, when a chicken is near to the end it is not a time for heroics. It is a time to do the right thing as they pass on. You might be very attached to your dying hen, but it is wrong to impose your own needs onto your bird’s passing. Prolonging her life is not a kindness. There will be difficult decisions to make, which should be done in the context of what is right for the hen. I’ve had two chickens die in the last week. One I had to euthanize (by breaking her neck) to prevent suffering. One I let die on her own terms. These decisions are always judgement calls, but I take comfort in knowing that they were based on years of experience and of having observed these individual birds.

I’m hoping, that over the course of the remaining winter months, that I’ll not have to deal with more deaths. Edwina, my last very old hen (she was a chick-mate of Twinkydink’s) shows no signs of slowing down. Edwina, is an amazing old bird, and as robust as ever. LIttle Betsy Ross is now the last old hen in with the young Ladies. She’s doing fine, too. As am I. I am not hardened to deaths in the flock. I’ll miss these birds and remember them fondly, but I won’t mourn them. Years of keeping chickens has taught me that birds come and go. It’s the nature of animal husbandry.

We’re on the second day of a snowstorm. It’s not blizzard conditions – we can still see into the distance – but the snow is blowing and piling up.

It’s cold.

Last night that needle dropped below 0°. That’s Fahrenheit.

I was worried about Twinkydink. She’s ailing and too feeble to roost. At 9 pm I went out into the coop to check on her. She had smartly tucked herself into a nesting box. She was comfortable, as were all of the other girls. Hens have about 10,000 feathers. They fluff them up and trap warm air next to their bodies. Take a look at Veronica. She’s not feeling the cold at all.

The Gems were huddled up on their roosts. (Ignore the spots on the photo, snow had gotten onto the lens.)

Frostbite on combs can be a concern. This morning I hurried outside to check on the Ladies. Twiggy, being a Leghorn, is not a typically winter hardy breed. She’s sleek (so she doesn’t have the dense, soft undercoat of feathers) and she has a ridiculously big comb. That helps to dissipate heat in the summer, but in the winter the tips can freeze. But, she’s sailing right through this cold spell. Here she is with Nancy Drew, both of whom have healthy combs.

In fact, Twiggy was feeling so chipper that she put some thought into where to lay her daily egg.

What with the wind and the deep snow, the pop doors are staying shut and the hens are staying in. However, first thing in the morning Phoebe has to go out to do her business. Which she did. But, even for her, the weather was a bit much and she came back in and I closed them all snugly up.

For this extremely cold weather, the only change that I make in the care of the hens is to give them a few handfuls of a mixture of corn and hulled sunflower seeds, which provides the extra fat and calories that they need to replenish what they burn off to stay warm. Tossed into their bedding, this feed will also keep them busy. I also make sure that they have some greens, or a cabbage, to peck at.

I don’t hang a heat lamp. My coop isn’t even insulated. I don’t bother with feeding warm mashes and yet my hens are doing great in this cold weather! I’ve heard about many flocks which are not. Here are some reasons why my girls are doing fine:

• • The coop has ample floor space so that the flock is not stressed from crowding.
• • The coop has windows so that the hens wake up and eat and drink, even during dreary days. Hens won’t eat or drink if huddled in a dark coop.
• • The coop has ample air space, so that moisture and fumes from manure moves up and out quickly, which means that the hens are breathing clean air.
• • The coop has roosts well above the floor, so that the hens are not sleeping over their manure.
• • The coop is clean and dry, with fresh bedding added during the storm.
• • The coop is well-ventilated, yet there are no windy drafts.
• • The waterer is on a heated pad, and so it never freezes. Access to fresh drinking water is essential.
• • The feeder is full, and is indoors so that the hens can eat throughout the day. It is placed so that even the meekest hen can eat in peace.
• • There is a tub filled with sand and cup of food-grade diatomaceous earth for dust bathing inside of the coop. That keeps them healthy and comfortable.

Here are the Ladies, who are cheerfully going about their day. They’re not even huffed up, even though the pop door is open while Phoebe is in the snow. It is 1°F.

What I’ve written above works for my flock. Some of you are much further north, and the temps are far colder. Some of you have coops that aren’t as well ventilated, or perhaps the wood floors hold moisture and so the air isn’t as dry. Perhaps your coop doesn’t have enough windows. Perhaps you’ve worried about your hens and wrapped the run in plastic, and thereby created a dangerously moist environment. Or perhaps all of your hens are old like Twinkydink. As always, pay attention to your animals. Despite the cold and your own discomfort, spend some time watching their behavior. Is everyone eating and drinking? Active? Does the coop smell right to you? Adjust your husbandry according to how the flock behaves. Don’t hang a heat lamp just because it’s cold. But do make changes if you notice an actual problem. When I finish writing this post, I’ll be going out to the barns to skip out the manure and observe my animals. The last few days I’d noticed that Beatrix was the last to get off the roost and she wasn’t looking so perky. I’ll take an extra moment to watch her.

What I won’t do is worry excessively about this cold spell. I’ve kept chickens here in New England for almost twenty winters. I’ve seen weeks of zero-degree weather and I’ve never seen a hen freeze in place! I’ve never even seen frostbite or a respiratory disease. Chilly, rainy weather, and extreme heat is far worse for your flock’s health. As long as your hens are housed and fed properly, extreme cold is more of a bother than health risk.

Buffy had been ailing for a long time. Hens rarely die peacefully in their sleep, so I knew that it would be up to me to decide if Buffy was suffering. That’s a very difficult thing to do. Old hens often slow down and you don’t realize that they’re not eating and drinking until they’ve been starving. I didn’t want that to happen to Buffy.

In November, she was still able to dirt bathe in the sun.

But by December, she didn’t have the strength in her legs to walk in and out of the coop. Although Buffy spent most of her days resting in the corner of the barn, each morning she stood up to get her special treat of hulled sunflower seeds and corn that I set down on the ground near her. She walked over the the waterer. Because she was spending so much time in one place, and had no energy to dust bathe, I checked her bottom to make sure it wasn’t packed with manure. I dusted her with louse powder. But, by the last week of December, she was no longer standing up to eat her food. She didn’t drink. Alasdair Maclean, the poet, describes this perfectly in his poem, Hen Dying:

She doesn’t visit the feed any more.
I lay some grain in front of her
whenever I come across her,
She rummages through her mind,
slowly remembering how to eat.

Buffy was done. Steve did the difficult task of euthanizing her. (He does a quick neck break, learned from a book. I’m sorry that I don’t have a video to share with you, as at some point, you’ll have to do this too, if you keep hens.)

As with all of my hens that pass on, I did a necropsy. Over the years, Buffy had survived several bouts of respiratory disease, a mysterious paralysis, and on-going weakness in her legs. I’d expected to see horrible things inside of her, as I had seen in my other old hens. I was surprised not to find any tumors or obvious infection. Like many old hens, she had a solidified egg in her body cavity, likely from an episode of internal laying. Her intestinal tract was discolored, and looked like it hadn’t been functioning well. I checked for internal parasites. There were none. My best guess is that she simply died of old age.

Buffy had 7 1/2 good years.

Followers of HenCam get attached to my chickens, some hens more than others. Buffy captured your hearts. Over the years, I’ve pondered why that was. She was a basic Buff Orpington, pretty and golden, fluffy and placid, But, I’ve had other hens like that. Why her? Perhaps it was how often she overcame seemingly terminal illnesses. She had more lives than a cat. But, that wasn’t it either, as she had fans who never knew of her life and medical history. I think that she connected with you because she had a personality of stoic calm. She seemed like someone who would be your steady best friend.

The other hens have gone on with their lives. It’s as if Buffy was never there. But we know she was.

I’m starting 2014, not with a post about chickens, but with a bit of miraculous beauty to set the tone for the New Year. This is a video that Steve took last summer while in Iceland with four Boy Scouts on a high adventure trip. This was filmed one evening at Skaftafell campground. The tents are lit by the rising moon, and the aurora borealis dances in the sky.