I gave them all names

This is a story of loss and heartache, tied to some of my most beloved animals.

When my wife and I moved into our home, one of my biggest dreams was to have a little backyard farm. After our first winter, I finally got my first group of chickens. Every animal I brought home was like family to me, no matter how big or small. I gave them all names, but my favorite was my rooster, Benny.

As summer came, we added more chickens, and they became part of our daily lives. I was careful not to let them roam too much because I knew there were predators around. But over time, I started letting them explore the yard while I watched over them. My roosters—Benny, Red, and Charlie—were always closest to me.

Then, out of nowhere, I lost Red. He passed suddenly, and I never figured out why. I buried him under his favorite tree, where he used to scratch in the dirt and sunbathe.

A week later, I was out for the day, spending time with friends. But as I was driving home, a terrible feeling hit me in my gut. I’ve always had a strong sense for things, like I can feel something before it happens, but I’ve never seen or heard anything strange before.

The moment I pulled into the driveway, I knew something was wrong. I rushed to the chicken coop—and my heart sank. Only a few hens were there, looking nervous, even the shyest ones running to me like they were scared. I called for my missing birds, hoping they would come back. My wife and I searched for hours. In the end, we only found one hen alive and another barely making her way back from the woods.

We knew it was a fox. My wife had seen one sneaking around a few weeks before. She found one of our hens lifeless in the tall grass, proof of what had happened. As I stood there, heartbroken, the sky opened up, and rain poured down, like the world itself was mourning with me.

That night, I leaned against a tree and closed my eyes, just hoping—pleading—for my lost birds to come home. And then, for the first time in my life, I saw something that wasn’t there. It was a quick flash, like a memory, of three of my missing hens. One of them, a Wyandotte, seemed to be perched on my shoulder, as if saying goodbye.

For weeks, I kept searching. I refused to give up. I swore I could still hear my roosters crowing in the distance, but I never found them. Then, just the other night, as I walked to the coop, I saw Benny—clear as day—standing by the door, waiting to go in. But when I blinked, he was gone.

That same night, I kept getting flashes in my mind—my hens running in fear, the fox stalking the coop. And then, for a split second, I saw something real—a flicker of fur right by the door. I ran toward it, heart pounding, but there was nothing there.

I’ve always been open to things beyond this world, but after that night, something changed. It’s like I can see and hear more than I could before. I know my birds loved me, and now, they’re finding their way back to me—even if only in spirit.

Now, every time I walk by the woods, it feels different. The wind carries something with it, something quiet and heavy. I know my chickens are still here in some way, waiting for me to help them find peace.