Goldie Hen died just the other day.  She was somewhere in the seven plus range, a good age for a hen.  Goldie represented our next to last link with our old home, 4601.  Now, all we have left representing the old guard is Clarabelle Poodle.  Oh well, it reminds of that last soldier standing bit.  You know the fellow who gets the bottle of whiskey when the last of his comrades receive his final marching orders.

Goldie probably died of a crop infection, which adversely affected her gizzard, which caused her to go septic.  If I was any better of a gentleman farmer, I could have figured such a thing out before her systems went all haywire.

Her passing makes me think of course of my own.  Such a short time we have, who knew?  Enjoy the moment and keep looking for the unusual, I guess.

Finally, my wife is an insanely avid photographer, 20,000 or so, and counting.  All those photos and I could just find a couple of our little hen.  She was a great friend and a boon companion.  She leaves behind some mates, of course.  Gallus will have to take the reins of lead hen.  I am sure she is up to the job.