I don't really know why they call it "passing" when something dies. Sunday morning greeted us with another death in the chicken box. I was preparing for a shower, getting distracted by the chicks as usual. They were all doing well, eating, drinking, chirping, and pooping: their favorite/only activities. I was anxious to see them to make sure they were doing better than Francine had done. A mere 15 minutes from saying hi to them, I noticed Gertrude laying down. As far as I can tell, from my two days with them, chicks only lay down to die. They sleep in a huddle, cuddling for warmth and with their eyes barely closed.

I nudged Gerty a bit and she shook wildly. She couldn't stand, wouldnt open her eyes much, and her breathing was labored. I yelled "Leif, I think Gertrude is dying!" Upon seeing her he said, "Yep, she's toast." I didn't want to see her suffer, but could only hold her in my hands as she breathed heavily. Leif and I went over options to put her out of her misery, but couldn't decide on anything. We both decided drowning her was the most "humane," but only in contrast to squishing her or breaking her neck. I couldn't bring myself to do any of these things, so I sat and kept her warm and comfortable while her breathing became more labored. She shook every once in awhile as if to try to shake death from her.

15 minutes later, she was making breathing motions, but no air went in. She stretched out her legs as far as they could reach, her tongue now stretching out with every attempt at breathing, and then stopped. Her eyes blinked a few times, then closed. Leif confirmed her death, and we buried her next to Francine in the raspberry patch.

Evelyn and Loretta are left, both seemingly happy and healthy, the loudest of the bunch by far. No quail eggs to report.