It's always the damn favorite đ
Our take
The sudden loss of a beloved chicken hits differently when youâve already got a soft spot carved out for your feathered friends. The story of Robinâa Christmas hatch that emerged as the sole survivor from a frail batch of barnyard mix eggsâresonates with anyone whoâs ever found themselves crying over a poultry grave. Itâs a tale as old as time, and as Lost my favorite chicken. Rest in Peace, Noot Noot. and Goodbye sweet girl can confirm: favorites have a way of stealing our hearts and then breaking them with eerie precision. Robin may have been just one beak in a coop full of clucking chaos, but she wiggled her way into the human circuit with the tenacity of a toddler after ice cream.
Thereâs something almost poetic about how these tiny dinosaurs manage to make such a monumental impact. Maybe itâs because chickens demand nothing but still give everythingâforaging diligently, laying eggs like theyâre gift-wrapped surprises, and following you around like feathered shadows with opinions. Theyâre low-maintenance until theyâre not, and suddenly youâre Googling symptoms at 2 a.m. because Just had to dispatch my favorite all black bantam chicken and questioning every life choice that led you to chicken ownership in the first place. The curse of the favorite isnât just realâitâs relentless.
What makes this particular kind of grief so uniquely bittersweet is how absurd it can be. Youâre mourning a creature that occasionally forgets which end is front and rear, yet somehow they manage to worm their way into your heart anyway. Favorites arenât chosen; they choose you. They perch on your shoulder during garden duty, squawk critiques during breakfast prep, and somehow know when youâre sad better than you do. Losing Robin isnât just about losing a chickenâitâs about losing a silent confidant who never judged your decision to wear the same clothes for three days straight.
In the grand scheme of backyard poultry priorities, itâs easy to overlook the emotional labor these birds provide. Theyâre therapists, companions, and unspoken family members rolled into one scruffy package. The next time youâre scolding your flock for escaping their coop or lamenting the price of cracked eggs, remember: somewhere out there, a chicken is stealing someoneâs heart and plotting its eventual demise. Itâs the circle of cluck, and we wouldnât have it any other wayâeven if it does leave us picking straw from our teeth and wondering why we signed up for this level of feathery heartbreak in the first place.
| | I had a chicken named Robin (pictured, ft. Pyrenees hair) I hatched out on Christmas 2025. She was named that because she looked like a European robin to me with her coloring. She was from a pretty frail batch of barnyard mix hatching eggs, and was the only one who emerged successfully. Robin was super sweet, and constantly followed my husband and I around, sticking close to our feet. She was hands down our nicest bird, and Robin wiggled our way into favoritism very quickly. We just discovered her gone to unknown causes. She had no apparent illness. It seems she just went to bed last night, and that was it. I'm very bummed out. I don't typically get attached to chickens, but Robin found a way into a soft spot in our hearts. I wish I'd taken more pictures. The curse of the favorite continues... [link] [comments] |
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