Other Duties as Assigned

She sat next to me for 3 hours as we drove together.  I’d never spent so much time with a live chicken before.  Peggy O, as she’d been named, wasn’t going to make it.  We all knew it.  Maybe she knew it too.  She was an elderly bird—one we’d rescued years before.  She’d lived a long and happy life—much longer and happier than anyone might have expected.  But now, her leg was in such pain that her quality of life was almost nothing.  She was in constant pain and there was nothing more that could be done for her. 

She needed her pain eased.  The only way to do that was to end her life.  But that, it seemed, was easier said than done. 

I’ve had dogs and cats—dogs that needed to be similarly released and a cat whose life ended very suddenly and without explanation.  It’s never easy, but it’s also not hard—not like this was.  Peggy was hurting.  But there was no veterinarian who would see her—they just don’t see chickens.

Why not?  Who knows? 

This was not the day I was expecting when I drove 105 miles to work that morning.  I didn’t visit the sanctuary often but when I did, the days were full.  There was so much to do—event preparations, fundraising strategy, donor meetings, prospect tours, reporting, scheduling, coaching.  A never-ending list like most places.  But as I sat with my boss that morning, the distress in her voice was obvious.  She knew these birds very well—had cared for them herself and learned all anyone could about how to care for elderly chickens.  But this was something Peggy needed a doctor for. 

The nearest vet was in Quakertown—3 hours from where Peggy was.  Someone needed to take her.  But no one was available.  The animal care staff was all busy with other animals.  It would be six hours out of their day—not practical but would do if there were no other option. 

“I can take her,” I said without really thinking.  Quakertown was on my way home.  I was headed there anyway.  If no one else could, I would.  Her relief was instant and her gratitude overwhelming.  We’d see how the day went and decide when I needed to leave.

Several hours later I found myself getting instructions on how to manage veterinary services in a global pandemic.  “Call from the parking lot.  They won’t let you go in but we’ll ask if they can give her the shot in the parking lot.  If they do, take her out and hold her.”  

Peggy was snug in a cat carrier that fit easily in my passenger seat.  A towel gave her a place to lay and she had plenty of room to turn around.  Our animal care manager gave me a package of blueberries to feed to her when we arrived.  “They’re her favorite.”

The mood was somber as I drove away.  Everyone had said their goodbye’s to Peggy and knew she’d be better off.  And so we began the long journey. 

It never escaped my mind that I was driving her to her death—even though that death was likely welcome on some level.  She didn’t seem scared or nervous.  She just sat calmly in her carrier and even dozed off a few times.  I found some soothing music and sang to her, reaching out a hand to stroke her soft feathers whenever traffic allowed.  It was peaceful but sad.  I found myself wondering about the line between companions and food.  Why would these doctors treat a horse, a dog, an iguana but not a chicken?  What’s really the difference?  Why are we horrified to eat one but not the other? 

I don’t know.  I don’t understand it myself. 

What happens to animals when they die?  I know what I believe happens to me.  But does God know Peggy?  He must.  He knows her because I know her.  He cares about her because so many of his children care about her.  It made me question what I believe about the beings that share our planet.  I had a lot of questions—but no answers.

As we pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary office I followed my set of instructions.  I sat on hold and Peggy ate the blueberries right from my hand.  Her last meal.  They would not be able to perform the procedure in the parking lot and I would not be allowed to go in.  It seemed cruel to deny this bird companionship in her last moments.  In the end, she would die alone.  Would someone notice her?  Would someone stroke her feathers and tell her it would be all right?  I found myself desperate to do those things—it seemed like the kind and compassionate thing to do. 

But I couldn’t.  Peggy had to face death alone. 

And as I drove home myself I could not stop thinking about her.