Death of an Artist

This morning, an artist left our world.

His name was Rembrandt.

And although he never held a brush, he coloured our days in ways we are only now beginning to understand.

He arrived a spritely young rooster, barely three or four months old, right on the cusp of finding his crow. And, like so many roosters before him, it seemed finding his voice had rendered him unwanted.

Yet Rembrandt had plenty to say about where life should take him next.

On his very first night, he rejected our designated sleeping arrangements and vanished into Chicken Village. Despite frantic searching, he could not be found. Radios played, car headlights lit the darkness and worried humans kept watch, lest a wily fox find our newest feathered friend first.

Come morning, there he was. Proudly strutting and crowing beneath the tree in which he had roostered for the night.

You can take the rooster out of the jungle, it seems, but never the jungle out of the rooster.

In the years that followed, Rembrandt found friendship with fellow dumped rooster Shell Solar Panel and became a master of something we humans too often forget: paying attention.

Of late, his body began betraying his enthusiasm. A troublesome leg saw him graduate to our vet room and a purpose-built chicken chair. We adjusted his world as his needs changed, and he continued to colour ours.

Until this morning.

Today, our beautiful friend told us the one thing we never wanted to hear.

It was time.

And because Rembrandt had spent a lifetime teaching us to pay attention, when he needed us the most, we did.

We cannot undo the day someone decided he was unwanted. But we could make certain he never felt unwanted again.

Though the artist is now gone, what he painted in our hearts remains.