It's a peculiar thing, loving a chicken. You don't expect to feel a hole in your chest the size of a hay bale when a golden comet passes on. But here we are, reading about Cinnamon, and frankly, we're tearing up a little. This first-time post from Sweet-Able hit us right in the soft spot under the comb.
Cinnamon was a rescue. That already tells you a lot about the kind of life she got, the kind of life you fight to give a feathered friend who's had a rough start. And for a year, she had it all: a human who loved her more than the rest of her flock, endless follow-around time, and a camera lens that never judged her for being "not always the brightest." She was special because she chose humans. She groomed with little pecks. She was, in every cluck-tastic way, a soul who found her purpose in being exactly who she was.
What does this mean for the rest of us, standing in our own coops, watching our own birds scratch at the dirt? It means that grief over a chicken is not silly. It's not "just yapping." We've all been there, trying to explain to a friend why you're crying over a bird that lays eggs. But the thing is, they don't just lay eggs. They follow. They peck. They have personality. When we lose one, we lose a little slice of our morning routine, our quiet moments, our loyal companion who never once complained about our bad jokes.
If a reader came to us with this same ache, we would say exactly what we're saying now: you gave her the best year of her life. You didn't just rescue her, you let her rescue you right back. And while we can't prove chicken heaven exists with infinite treats, we can absolutely hope it does. Cinnamon earned it. So take a moment. Cry. Eat a snack in her honor. And when you're ready, maybe rescue another one who needs a human who loves cameras and gentle pecks. That's the only concrete thing that makes the loss a little less unbearable: the next chicken who gets to be just as loved.