Greta Flightmaster is gone.
Greta, from the beginning you were a bad girl, flying up to the rafters, hiding in trees, and pooping on the Elder when he tried to rescue you. You were the chicken yard bully whose feathers were too big for the coop.
Whenever I personified you to humans, I always described you as the bad girl in the back alley, scarlet lipstick staining cigarettes as you leaned against the dirty brick wall in your stilettos, fishnet tights and black leather miniskirt, always beckoning to lead the other chickens astray with, “Let’s go have some fun!”
When we moved to the new house, you escaped the fenced run and were gone thirty minutes, prompting your panicked keepers to search high and low, traveling through our neighborhood streets wondering if you had eaten prized flowers or pooped on pristine patios.
Did the chicken cross the road? Yes, she did, but I still don’t know why.
I didn’t particularly care for your attitude, Girl, and I was certain it would be just you and me after all the rest died simply because you were so ornery.
In the end, you were beautiful and productive. What more could we ask from a chicken? I may not have liked you so much, but I loved you a ton. Greta, you will be missed.
-Your Hen Sorority Mother