"Jesus killed Mr. H?"

Living here is a bust for keeping pets. In the last four months, we have lost one kitten (taken during the night by who-knows-what), three baby geese (one killed by a cerval cat, two succumbed to unknown illness), one puppy (tick fever), and two chickens (one got sick and died, the other taken by another unknown predator). Our most recent loss was the death of Mr. H, Elsa's beloved rooster and our first addition to the family since moving to Omo.
This was no ordinary rooster. Mr. H followed us everywhere, ate out of the same dish as the dogs, let Elsa and Ezra hang onto his tail feathers and pet his head, and became the chivalrous, doting husband of Mama C when we acquired a hen. Caleb witnessed the amazing Mr. H kill a lizard, cluck twice and stand back while he allowed his new bride to devour the lizard. I'll say it again: this was no ordinary rooster.> Alas, all good things must come to an end. At least, that is how it is along the banks of the Omo River, where getting a pet young and letting it live as a family member well into old age is unheard of. Two nights ago, Mr. H was dragged from his chicken house and taken off to become dinner for some mongoose or wild cat. The next morning, I had to explain to Elsa why Mr. H wasn't coming running as she called for him. Elsa's response? "Jesus killed Mr. H?"
I suppose that is the only logical conclusion to draw when you are two years old and mama tells you that all of your pets...Manny, Brown Sugar Chicken, Raines, and all of the baby geese...have gone to live with Jesus.
Today, we got a new rooster. I know, I know, you'd think that by now we'd have learned our lesson and perhaps passed on the whole pet-business. But...meet H2. You may call him Hummer.