Alias: Mrs. Potts

Photo by R. Higgins for Woodstock Animal Sanctuary

A version of this post originally appeared on Woodstock Farm Sanctuary’s social media.

There are some people you meet and will never forget. Mrs. Potts was one of those people.

I didn’t know her for very long out of her life. Her time at Woodstock Animal Sanctuary pre-dates almost all of the staff, but as far as we know, she has been old for her entire life. I’d say she was roughly 110 years old, at the least. An elderly Cornish Cross hen, she was creaky and disheveled. Her gait was wobbly at best. She wouldn’t hesitate to join—or start—a scuffle.

But those less-than-polished traits were misleading. Mrs. Potts was dignified, sassy, and clever.

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In a past life, I’m convinced she was an 18th century spy. I imagine she was an unassuming matron who frequented the salon, sitting in the corner knitting, nodding politely at patrons and sipping a hot toddy. When she engaged with the townsfolk, her voice was chipper, peppered with foul language (no pun intended), which, I imagine, always made those around her grin with amusement that she was capable of such impropriety. No one brought up Mr. Potts, as he was a mysterious and forbidden topic. Sharing recipes and town history and occasionally matchmaking was more appropriate for Mrs. Potts.

She wasn’t socializing, though. She had a mission. She was listening to the chatter, to the gossip, to the rumors. The information she gathered would aid the revolution, and she encoded each tidbit of intel into her stitches. The blanket she had draped over her lap was a document that held the secrets to taking down fascism. Rumor has it that the blanket was either entombed deep in archives, or burned, by the Vatican.

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Mrs. Potts often had foot issues, common in Cornish cross chickens. So here she is with balloons to protect the wrappings on her toes as she naps on a lap.

In this life, Mrs. Potts would chase you down for a snack, or attention. She was endlessly curious. I could call for her in the yard and ungracefully but enthusiastically, she followed. If you opened her pen and blinked, she would somehow be across the room instantly—she moved so fast for someone with arthritis and short legs. Grooming her, because she couldn’t always reach every spot in her feathers, was the highlight of my career. Mrs. Potts often sat on my lap during meetings. She was part of the crew, and having her on our side made even the toughest subjects manageable.

Photo by O. Van Campen

The morning she passed, she held on long enough for us, her caregivers, to arrive. We held her and told her how much we loved her, and how she will never be forgotten. We sat with her as the sun rose, and in between tears, I wondered how long before the rest of her files would be declassified. Mrs. Potts had many secrets, but her intense drive and love of living was widely known. We at Woodstock will continue her legacy and carry out her mission—that of being the revolution of care and liberation.

Later that morning, as we began the rounds of the day, a rooster was found in the turkey yard. His presence made zero sense, and his identity was a mystery.* I picked up the strange bird, laughing at the absurd timing of his arrival. When I introduced him to the team, one of us looked to the sky, shaking a finger. My teammate chastised, “You’re a funny one, Mrs. Potts! You would send us a handsome rooster!” And the pieces fell into place—Mr. Potts was here to pick up where she left off. His past will never be explained, but I just know he has the password to Mrs. Potts’s classified files.

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*Disclaimer: Dumping animals is a serious issue, both for safety and legality. Rooster abandonment is far too frequent. It’s dangerous and has many consequences. We are investigating how he got here. But for my grieving mind, there was a story unfolding.