A chicken named McChick

Published 8:55 pm Tuesday, October 27, 2026

The family next door got a chicken as a pet for their kids. They called it McChick after the McDonald’s chicken sandwich. The kids carried it around everywhere.

Sometimes, it would come over and roam around our yard without the kids. At first, I would run it off. Gradually, McChick worked her way into my heart like many dogs in my life had done. McChick could not go on point for quail, flush pheasant, retrieve ducks, or tree a squirrel, but she would leave me an egg once in a while behind a bush. I got to where I would bend down to pet her or pick her up in my arms.

When I burned limbs in my fire pit, she would fly up on the wood pile and cluck away while keeping me company.

I did worry about her. I did not want her to get out on the road and get run over. Several neighborhood dogs were around, too. I had also seen a red-tailed hawk flying around. I always knew when it was because the birds would disappear and the squirrels would start making a fuss. On the farm I grew up on, Grandpa called them chicken hawks. We always lost a few chickens to them.

One morning before we left for church, I walked outside and looked around for McChick, but I didn’t see or hear her. Suddenly, I saw movement at the corner of the house and walked over to see what it was. The hawk had McChick pinned to the ground. I kicked the hawk hard to get it off. I was too late. McChick was gone. I picked up McChick and smoothed her feathers. I was sorry that I didn’t get there sooner. The hawk would not leave its meal and sat on one of our birdhouses, watching me. I put her in a sack and hid her from the hawk before leaving for

church.

I told my wife what happened. She was worried about how the kids would take it. I texted their mom and told her what had happened. I asked her if she wanted me to bring McChick over so they could bury her. She thought that would be too hard on the kids and asked if I would bury her at our house so they could visit her grave when they wanted to. I agreed.

When I got home from church, I buried her in the shade of several big oak trees where the kids liked to come and sit with me to watch birds on our feeders. I dug a hole and placed her in it. I then took a flat rock, carved McChick into it, and put it at the head of the grave. It was the least I could do for this chicken that had captured our hearts.

Later that day, Mom and Dad brought them over to visit the grave. The kids’ tears flowed. Even the adults were choking back a few tears. The kids wanted me to tell them what happened with their beloved chicken, and they wanted to see the pictures I took of the hawk.

That was a few years ago. The kids still visit the grave, and they tell their new brother and sisters about McChick. They will always remember this special chicken. So will I. For a little while, in time, God blessed us with a chicken named McChick.

Something to think about

“Perhaps the greatest gift an animal has to offer is a permanent reminder of who

we really are.” – Nick Trout

Born and raised in Nixa, Larry Whiteley has communicated the great outdoors across America for over 45 years through newspapers, magazines, books, blogs, television, and a nationally syndicated radio show. Read more of his award-winning stories at www.storiesbylarry.com. Email him at larrywhiteley2@gmail.com.