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The Late Tootie J. Tootums August 9, 2010
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The Late Tootie J. Tootums
August 9, 2010

Greetings Friends of the Farm,

She died in bed.

It’s what many of us wish for...to lie down, when it’s our time, in our own bed -- our own spot on the perch -- and pass on to whatever lies beyond. Of course, unlike a human, she had to hold on to the wooden perch with all her toes, or fall off, and in the end, sadly, she did fall off.

Tootie J. Tootums, of the Black Sex-link Tootum family, sound in every visible respect -- save a suddenly pale pink comb -- dwindled over the last month --  affected by the heat, yes, but perhaps more by her destiny. Even though our most senior hen, Aunt Droptail, at sixteen years, is much older than Tootie, seven and a half years old is considered rather old for a chicken. Five years seems to be the critical age, perhaps akin to a human’s sixty-five. But, like humans, chickens can pass on at any age for whatever unknown reasons.

Few autopsies are done on chickens. Indeed, chickenists rarely carry their ailing hen pets to the veterinarian’s office, as most vets don’t specialize in birds, and if they did, you can be sure that the expense would be great and a negative outcome typically guaranteed. Regardless, Tootie, for one, would not have liked to experience any “torture” on her final few days.

Instead, last week, she sat on water-cooled soil and dozed. And she proudly wore her signature gold-rimmed glasses to the end. They were a symbol of her intellect.


On her soon-to-be final day, since she was not active, I offered her water with vitamins and electrolytes, home-made kefir and a bit of raw egg yolk. The yolk was not from one of her eggs as she was through with that phase of her life. In a little nudge to tradition, she tried twice, in vain, this spring, to assert her fertility, but the results were vague -- one egg laid under the farm stand fig tree had no shell, so she dutifully ate it. The other was a myth and did not show. All that pushing for nothing.

As the sustenance was presented to her, she sipped a bit from each little jar lid, and from the opened shell, to please me no doubt, but she had no real interest in the liquids, or any food at all. She hadn’t eaten for days. She just sat on, and if annoyed by over-active hen aides, she moved a few steps to a more tranquil spot, and sat back down on her legs and let her head droop a bit more. She had wanted nothing much to do with the other hens even when she was in her prime, and she certainly didn’t want them messing with her final, peaceful moments. Such times are sacred, to hen and human alike....


On her last night, taking very careful, thoughtful steps, she managed to ascend the ramp and found her way to her personal spot at the end of the front-row perch. Tucking her head down, she dreamed. Perhaps she dreamed of grub worms, or her chickhood, or Aunt Penny, or nothing.

And in the madrugada, before first light, she slipped from the perch, with her legs still drawn to her breast and her head still turned slightly to the side, and left behind the Hen House, the other hens, and life.

Shortly after dawn, I found her and carried her, still warm, to her grave. I had dug it, the day before, as I knew she would die.

When a chicken gets “down,” her demise comes typically in just a few days. Who knows why, medically, a chicken sits down and dies. You just have to accept mysteries in life and in death. You have to say, finally, “It was her time.”  That covers it all. It doesn’t matter if the “cause of death” was kidney failure, a bad heart that gave out, a fast life full of the wrong nourishment, bad habits, a pessimistic outlook, a nervous soul. It doesn’t matter. It’s all about “time.” Last Tuesday was her time.

Tootie studied for the role of “head hen,” under the tutelage of the late Aunt Penny. Both hens accompanied me to work in the fields. Of course Auntie was in charge of the hen help, and so she disciplined Tootie every chance possible. Since Auntie didn’t like grub worms, I’d toss them over her to Tootie, who was fair to all worms, gustatorially. This would pique Auntie who preferred the dreaded grub get squashed rather than have Tootie enjoy something she abhorred. But Tootie, full of grubs, was sanguine about this judgement, and held no grudges. Indeed, she knew her junior position, and respected Aunt Penny’s guidance on all non-culinary matters about life in the Hen House and the perks and pleasures of being a special hen.

She knew how to earn favorite hen status. Along with Aunt Penny, she gained entry to the farmhouse kitchen, where she vied with Auntie for crumbs hiding in the cracks between the old floor boards -- her beak was a precise tool -- and left-over goodies stored in the chicken bucket.  At times, both hens hopped upon the porch benches for a look through the kitchen windows. Such smartness, and their delight in communicating with humans, generally opened the door.

                   After Aunt Penny's demise, Tootie was alone on the bench, looking in and out at the same time.

In the years following Aunt Penny’s death, Tootie supervised the planting of heirloom tomatoes, arugula and kale. She specialized in de-worming and de-cricketing as we cultivated the soil. She loved the winter produce even more than hen scratch, and kale growing in the first six feet of the rows usually showed her signature triangular pecks.

Last fall, when the seventy-five new chicks were two months old and recently moved to the Hen House, Tootie, along with twin sister Hoppy J. Tootums (the little hen with an oar for a leg), was allowed to stay with the chicks. To create a calm environment for the babies, the matron hens and Rusty Roo the Rooster were banished from that side of the Hen House -- which can be duplexed by closing an inner gate. Tootie was happy over this decision as she dreaded any contact with Rusty.

Surprisingly, Tootie, who has never desired to have chicks, adopted all of the youngsters, and felt such responsibility to them, that she refused to leave the Hen House, even to work in the fields. She became a “stay-at-home” auntie. After a month of her care, she decided that the chicks were grown, and she resumed her outings, cheerfully leaving the youngsters behind.

Her last accomplishment was to write the farmer’s column “Seasonal Muse,” for the fall issue of Edible Austin. Of course I had to translate her Chickenese to Humanese, and type the words. She responded to the literary assistance with the same courtesy she exhibited when being let back into the Hen House after her daily jaunts on the farm, by saying, “Heh-heh,” which in Chickenese, means “Thank you.” Perhaps Tootie knew that this, her first article, was the end cap to her very wonderful life.

She leaves behind to mourn, her farmer, her fans, and sister Hoppy J. Tootums. It’s amazing that Hoppy, who has tirelessly hopped on one leg for most of her life, has outlasted Tootie, who possessed every advantage, from two good legs to personality and intellect. At any rate, Tootie, still wearing her signature gold-rimmed glasses, is now at rest, next to her mentor in the sacred soil around the grave-yard pecan tree. Larry will bring back from Gause a flat sand-stone rock so that her name can be engraved for perpetuity. She would say to this kindness, “Heh-heh.”


Carol Ann
PS: Be sure to pick up a copy of the fall issue of Edible Austin. Tootie would be happy to know that you read her article. She would answer, in response to your praise, "Heh-heh."

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