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White HenJanuary 07, 2006 There was a patch of snow at the end of the front pasture yesterday afternoon, except we haven't seen snow in weeks and it wasn't snow at all; it was white feathers. In the brush along the fenceline was the hen. Her eyes were wide open. She seemed to be roosting; she looked for all the world like the cover of a faux-folk casserole dish. I had to rap my whip hard on the rail to convince myself she was dead. A thin trail of white feathers led up the Stoney Hill Road to the pen on the other side. Don't know what got the white hen; one of the dogs probably. It was only a matter of time. For months the hens have been flying, hopping, and otherwise escaping the coop at will and meandering up and down the road. I've ridden through the flock many times, Rhodry at my side, my eye on Rhodry, Rhodry's eye on the biscuit in my hand. At nine months Rhodry stole a chicken and brought it home three-quarters dead; we carried it back to the owner, and the owner finished the job. After that Rhodry was tethered whenever I wasn't watching him. Especially in his younger days Rhodry would chase anything that ran. A few times over the years I've seen him chase peacocks, turkeys, and guinea fowl but they've always gotten away: peacocks, turkeys, and guinea fowl can make like helicopters and fly up to safety. What's scary about chickens is that they just run. The hens across the road are bold: they don't run. They don't run, so Rhodry doesn't chase them. I've never quite managed to breathe easy when riding with Rhodry through the flock, but so far he's been a gentleman. Still, when I saw the dead hen I reviewed Rhodry's whereabouts for the preceding few hours and even the previous day. He hadn't been out of my sight for more than a couple of minutes; I hadn't heard any squawking; there were no white feathers anywhere close to the barn. If a dog did it, it wasn't my dog. If you've never been to Martha's Vineyard, you've probably never heard of Nancy Luce, but if you have, you'll understand why it's impossible to contemplate the lonesome death of a white hen without thinking of Nancy. Nancy Luce lived near Tiah's Cove in the nineteenth century. The older she grew, the more reclusive she got. She didn't care for people, especially those of the male persuasion, but she was devoted to her hens. She wrote poems to them and memorialized her favorites when they died. Word got around the island about Nancy Luce; tourists came to check her out, and she sold them copies of her poems. She's buried in the West Tisbury cemetery -- you can see her grave from the sharp bend in the road that we call Dead Man's Curve. There's a flock of plastic chickens on it.
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