|Birth: ||May 9, 2004|
|Death: ||Oct. 20, 2009|
My father's memorial
Thank you to Pamela Sitler for sponsoring this page
Something that I can remember being a part of my life for as long as I can remember was an old egg incubator. It was wooden and stood on short legs, and was about 5 feet tall and 2 and a half feet square. It could hold 2 or 3 hundred eggs and I have seen many a baby duck, chicken, guinea or peacock born in it.
When we moved from Joplin to Granby in '76, it came along with us. And my dad continued to put eggs from time to time for himself or friends.
His best friend's son had sent quite a few 'special breed' of chicken eggs for my dad to hatch in that incubator. On Mother's Day 2004, my father and I went out to check on it since it should be time for the eggs to hatch.
Out of all of them, only one hatched. One little fluffy chicken. I felt sorry for it, and took it into their house where I held out my hand and said to my mother, "Happy Mother's Day."
I gave her the chicken and her reply, "What am I supposed to do with this?"
We put it in a parakeet cage with a stuffed Miss Piggy doll for it to cuddle up to. During the day we'd get it out and my mother would put cocketiel seed on her carpet and that little chicken would scratch around like it was on grass. She'd put it on her shoulder and it would fall asleep under her hair.
As it got a little older the only way to catch it to put it back would be for me or my father to chase it saying, "I'm going to get you," and it would run to my mother for protection and she would grab it.
My father spent a lot of time working in the hay fields or cutting wood, or fixing fences. In the summer time, as it was now getting to be, he would come in covered with seed ticks. He would lay his shirt on the white marble, it covered with ticks, and we'd put that little chicken on the shirt and that little thing ate every one of them.
Another time my father came in and discovered that he had a tick stuck in his bellybutton. And try as he may, he could not get it out. So my father said to us, "Bring me the chicken!" We did, and Chicky Poo as it was now named, tugged and pulled until it had that tick devoured.
One day while at their house, I thought one of their cocketiels was making a very odd sounding crackling noise. "What is that awful noise?" I asked my mother. That little chicken that everyone had hoped to be a hen, was indeed a rooster. He had crowed his first attempt at a crow.
On August 16, 2004 like so many mornings, my father got up as usual to watch AgDay, then my father went back to bed where he stayed until hearing Chicky Poo crowing about 6am. My father heard it and said to my mother, "There's our alarm clock," the last words my father would say to my mother before dying.
My mother got up a little while later to find my father in his favorite spot: laying in front of the TV watching the news, eating grapes. My father's heart had given out on him. My mother always said that had Chicky Poo not crowed, then my father would have more than likely died in bed.
As Chicky Poo got older, he started exibiting aggressiveness to everyone but my mother. He would bring the blood with his inch long spurs to anyone who entered his domain. I live across the road from my mother, and I could stand on my side of the road with Chicky Poo on his side and he would not cross the road. Evidently, he didn't believe in that old joke: Why did the chicken cross the road.
Chicky Poo's affection was not only for my mother, but for his stuffed doll Miss Piggy. He loved her up the only way he knew to do as a rooster and heaven help anyone who touched that doll. He'd try to tear your head off, flying at your head with the attitude of "LEAVE HER ALONE!"
Chicky Poo had a wooden pedestal outside my mother's large living room window where he sat during the day watching my mother. He slept in a cocketiel cage at night, ate ice cream, icing, chicken, brownies, strawberries or anything she ate and watched Country Music shows. His favorite instrument was the banjo. He stopped whatever it was he was doing to pay close attention to whoever was playing one.
He was known all over. The mailman would tell you that there was a killer chicken in that yard, and he will chase your car. Certain neighbors would only visit if they brought their own broom to protect themselves. He even made the front page of one of the local newspapers.
Chicky Poo was very sensitive. If a hawk flew over, or any bird really, he would actually start hyperventilating. We'd tell him, "It's okay Chicky." He didn't socialize with the other little chickens, he stayed close to my mother; following her everywhere.
During the last week of his life he wasn't as aggressive as usual. I don't know why he died, maybe because of age. On his last day, my mother let him out of his cage on the front porch and he went down the steps to walk toward the grand chicken house (as seen in the picture to the right) to his little pen. The gate was closed until she came out to open it for him, at which time he went in and sat down.
I do believe that God lets animals into heaven. Chicky Poo is with my dad, with Sara the Dog and he's no longer suffering. But it's always hard to lose a pet, especially when that pet is so closely tied to my father whom I miss greatly.
Created by: Sarah Capps
Record added: Oct 21, 2009
Find A Grave Memorial# 43360596