So, Peggy-O got killed by a hawk. It had gotten into the pen somehow—through a hole in the deer netting, we think. Poor Bertha is all alone and traumatized.
Peggy-O was sort of our middle child chicken. Stella was huge and dominating; Bertha is little and neurotic. Peggy was just a goof.
This is her hangin' in front of the coop on the day that we got the chickens. They were a few months old at the time, and in pissed-off adolescent style, Peggy-O ran away from home that night. We found her the next morning, high up in a pine tree, and we had to chase her down with a bamboo pole.
She also survived at least one hawk attack in the past. Afterward, she ground off all her head feathers as a result of trying to squeeze herself inside a cinder block to hide. Poor, bald, dead Peggy-O.
We'll miss her, and her monstrous eggs.
R.I.P. Peggy-O (July 2006–15 November 2008)