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The Lady of Two Pitchers…Or, What Happened When My Chicken Died
So, my chicken died.
She was called Joli Chicken – named after my third daughter, who has always gone her own way.
All five of the other chickens always travel around as a flock, come when they are called and dutifully troop back into their pen for their grain treat when it’s time to go back inside, after a day spent happily free-ranging in the garden.
Not Joli Chicken. She was here, she was there, she was everywhere. A free-spirited chicken. She travelled to the beat of her own drum, did Joli Chicken.
The grandkids came over on Sunday morning to have fun around the farm. One of the things they wanted to do was collect the eggs, which we did. Elis wanted to go inside the chicken shed. I said we shouldn’t disturb the chickens inside their house, but just let them straight out into the garden for a play. They adore jogging down to the compost heap and scratching for worms. (The chickens, that is. Not the grandkids.)
And lucky that I did stop the kids from going into the chicken shed – because poor Joli Chicken was laying there on the floor, dead as a doornail. And there would have been many upset grandchildren.
As it was, I just kept quiet and re-locked the shed door. The grandkids planted up their tomato and rocket seeds for their summer salad containers, set them carefully on the propagator bench, ate their fish fingers and beans for lunch and went home.
I told Rich that Joli Chicken had died. I asked him what we should do with her.
He said we needed to bury her. But it was raining, and we only had an hour before we needed to go to Isabella’s dance recital. I told him I couldn’t bear it, and anyway we didn’t have time.
So I double-bagged Joli Chicken and chucked her in the wheelie bin. I know, I know. I’m not proud of it. It probably isn’t even legal. But that’s what I did.
And then today, I woke up with the sure and certain knowledge that I was going to have to put things right. I owed Joli Chicken better than ending her days in the wheelie bin.
So I had to go and GET HER OUT OF THE WHEELIE BIN.
Yes, I did. For my sins. And that will teach me to quail at doing the right thing the first time around, because it was INFINITELY WORSE to do it that way. But I did it.
Luckily her bag was still there, right on top.
I messaged Dan to see if he was around, to dig me a chicken-sized hole. He wasn’t onsite. OF COURSE HE WASN’T. Because clearly, the universe was teaching me a lesson here. I was going to have to dig my own hole, and bury my own chicken. Sometimes, the work is just yours to do.
So, I shouldered my poaching shovel, picked up the bin bag with Joli Chicken in it, and headed down to the bottom of the garden. On the way I grabbed a purple flowering primrose that was waiting to be planted in the Long Bed.
I walked through the South circle gate where the climbing roses are just starting to show tiny red leaves, and down around the compass circle. One side of the circle was sunny. One was shady. I chose the shady half, past the East gate. Down to the North gate, and out into the wild patch at the bottom of the hill.
At the very bottom of the garden is a circle of powdery white Himalayan birch trees, surrounded by bright red Midwinter Fire Dogwood bushes. There’s a bench inside the grove, and small stone statue of a lady holding two pitchers. I’ve always thought of it as a good place to go and be sad, although I’ve never yet had to go there.
But it seemed like today was going to be the day.
Gathering my courage – and also, let’s be honest, stalling for time – I went into the grove and sat down on the bench, staring at the Lady of the Two Pitchers.
She’s a quiet and mysterious figure, that Lady. I’ve always thought that one of her pitchers was giving, and one receiving. If that’s true, then maybe it means that things are always in motion. Always changing. Some things flowing in, and some flowing out.
Stability through flow. Perpetually turning, under our feet.
Maybe the secret is to learn to stand inside that giving and receiving, like the Lady of Two Pitchers. To let some things come in, and some things go out. Not to be brittle – but to let things move you. To let your heart be broken all over again, each time. Like standing in the ocean and feeling the push and pull of the waves, without letting them knock you over. That’s what I know at 60, that I didn’t know at 21.
Enough stalling. I sighed, stood up and grabbed my spade. I walked out of the grove and picked a spot that seemed right for a chicken’s grave, between the hedge and the tunnel of climbing rose. I drove my spade into the ground, hit tooth-jarring resistance and thought – Ugh. Too rocky.
But then I thought, well, if I can’t dig the smallest grave here, in the soft clay of south west Wales, I can’t do it anywhere. People have dug graves in all kinds of places. Mountains and valleys, deserts and covered wagon trails. The pioneer trails across America were littered with tiny crosses. People dig graves. They always have. That’s what we do.
So I dug the grave for Joli Chicken, in the bright cold March sunshine. I dug a hole that I thought was big enough for a chicken. I laid her in the hole, with her head tucked down on her breast. Her feathers looked just the same as they always had, glossy and striped with black and white. I told her that she had been a good chicken (which is a lie, as she was a total pain in the arse) and that I was sorry that she had died. Which was true.
I hesitated before putting the first clod of dirt onto her shining feathers. It probably always feels wrong, doesn’t it? That first clod of earth. I suppose that’s why they do it ceremonially, at burials.
But it had to be done, so I did it.
I wished I had brought her some of the grain treat that she loved to eat. Then I thought that would be silly. Then I wished I had done it anyway.
I covered her over with earth, and thought how comforting it was that all graves look the same – once they are covered with earth. The earth takes us all back, in the end.
I planted the purple primrose on top of Joli Chicken’s grave, and stood there for few minutes, leaning on my shovel in the sunshine.
And then I went inside, to have a cup of tea.
Hugs,
Shann.x
Founder/Director Chuckling Goat
The Most Influential Business Leader to Watch In 2026, Enterprise World Magazine, https://theenterpriseworld.com/shann-jones-chuckling-goat/
(sign-off pic)
