When pets leave us, do we want nothing but the truth – or to soften the blow? In my experience, the truth eventually comes home to roost. Photo: Hayley Nicholls.
When my husband was eight, his family dog – a Jack Russell pup named Poppy – disappeared.
Growing up in a tiny hamlet in North Wales, this was huge news for the community, and it wasn’t long before “the whole village” was out searching the fields for Poppy.
Thank goodness, Poppy was miraculously found down a rabbit hole. With no small amount of effort, she was unearthed and returned to her loving family.
In some Final Destination-level nonsense, Poppy was run over by a truck shortly thereafter. At Christmas. While the children were performing in the local nativity play.
To limit their trauma, my poor mother-in-law smiled and clapped her way through – waiting until the children had removed their halos to tell them Poppy would be spending Christmas with Jesus.
Decades later, my husband recalls the details and tells the tale well.
As a child, the loss of a pet is a core memory-maker – no matter how the news is broken.
I still recall the horror of finding our Siamese Fighting Fish had effectively committed suicide, leaping from its – with hindsight, utterly insufficient – tank to its slow, dry death on the kitchen floor.
In our modern family life, we’ve suffered a few losses – some sudden, others naturally occurring.
We once lost three sheep to a horrific dog attack, which is a crime scene I try hard not to recall. And conversely, we recently said goodbye to our 16-year-old doggo in a manner so dignified, calm and organised, it had the air of a televised state funeral.
But goodbyes are never easy – for grown-ups or the kids.
Which is why we avoided it entirely this time when we decided to rehome our rooster.
Hear me out. Then call protective services.
Ghosting. Smoke bomb. The Irish goodbye. Whatever you call it, sometimes farewells are more trouble than they’re worth and it’s easier to simply vamoose.
This was our ethos for justifying the mysterious disappearance of Dusty the rooster, who was, in fact, an inconsiderate night owl with a formidable set of pipes and no sense of time.
Dusty came into our lives as an adorable three-day-old chick, as a gift from a well-meaning neighbour overcome by the joy on my eight-year-old daughter’s face as she beheld this little fluffball.
“You can take the chick and its mum home, if you like,” she offered.
Obviously, there was no way back from this, from my daughter’s perspective. Also, she got her impulsiveness from me. Thus, single mum and little floof joined our family.
One day, Little Dusty took a really big breath and announced himself as a prize-winning pain in our butts.
He then proceeded to wake our family – and presumably any neighbours within a 5 km radius – several times every evening.
I don’t know whether he thought it was morning, was warning of fox sightings, or was just suffering from debilitating night terrors, but this rude rooster would crow from 2 am onwards.
I love animals, but no creature is cute enough to justify this level of sleep deprivation.
With regret, Dusty was served his eviction notice via our local Facebook community noticeboard, and a kindly lady (who mustn’t require sleep) offered him new lodgings.
Now, we were faced with a decision. What to tell the children?
We umm-ed and ahh-ed over this long and hard, until eventually, three months went by.
We had let things go too far. It was now awkward.
It’s the before and after nobody wanted – but Dusty found a happy home with a deep sleeping family. Photo: Hayley Nicholls.
In an astonishing demonstration of object permanence – or lack thereof – the children had not questioned the whereabouts of our midnight alarm clock.
My husband and I breathed a sigh of relief, quietly celebrating the successful smoke bomb.
Unfortunately, there is always one person at the party who draws attention to such things.
Sadly, we found a dead chicken in the enclosure this week. It’s often hard to know why a chook has given up the ghost because, as prey animals, they hide their ailments well – the stoic ol’ broads.
As such, the kids are no strangers to the occasional natural chook death, and there was no beating around the bush needed. However, the incident did uncover some ugly rooster-related questions.
Time to pay the piper.
At last, we came clean about Dusty’s eviction, his new home and the importance of a good night’s sleep.
Fortunately, our country kids took the news well, and we only left a minor dent in their trust in us. Nothing we can’t buff out, hopefully.
I suppose – decades from now – it’s a tale for them to tell.
Original Article published by Hayley Nicholls on Region Canberra.
