A Death and a Chicken Welfare Check

To Terminal: Life behind a bus stop

When we moved into our townhouse behind the “To Terminal” bus stop — where the bus route both ends and begins, and the drivers take their 15 minute breaks — I knew we’d have a colorful existence. We’re in a lovely residential neighborhood in Seattle, next to a restaurant and coffee shop and just three longish flights of stairs down to the beach and Elliott Bay.

I love our little house. We have fairy lights on the patio, a fire pit and beach chairs. I have an office with a sliding door to the patio. A cozy main floor packed with books and general chaos. We have a 65 pound senior dog and four cats. The girl cats like each other. The boy cats are brothers and love each other. But nobody gets along outside of those relationships, so we’re frequently yelling for someone to stop growling or chasing or swatting with their knife paws out.

One afternoon last summer, two Seattle cops opened our patio gate. I work from home and my husband works odd hours, so we were both there to greet them. The cops were big burly men, and oddly sounded like they had just arrived from New Jersey.

Not in a million years would we have guessed why they were here.

“Do any of your neighbors have chickens?”

My husband pointed them to the townhouse down a set of stairs and behind us. Our neighbors from Kurdistan had four or so chickens kept in a pen. Their kids would let them out to wander in the alley a couple times a day. Every once in a while, I’d hear them clucking or fussing.

Five minutes later, the cops were back.

“So we’re doing a chicken welfare check,” the one with a mustache said. “A neighbor called it in.”

My husband and I laughed. There’s always that neighbor — ours is an older woman who keeps an eye on the comings and goings of the shared alleyway.

“She said the owners haven’t been around for days and nobody is feeding the chickens,” said Mustache Cop. “She thinks they look skinny.”

We hadn’t noticed our neighbors being out of town and said as much.

“How do you tell if chickens are skinny?” non-Mustache Cop said, shrugging. We didn’t know either.

We promised to keep an eye on the chickens and to call if we didn’t see the neighbors soon. The cops left, probably to take care of more pressing neighborhood issues like stolen cars and muggings.

But as ridiculous as a chicken welfare check seemed in a big city, it was also heartening to see.

A few months later, the neighbors sold the chickens. They had to fly to Iraq to care for an ailing mother and would be gone for several months.

No more chickens in the alleyway.

But yes, we live behind an active bus stop.

There is always at least one bus outside of our house, sometimes as many as three depending on how fast or slow driving the route is going. We’re both the last and first stop on this particular route. This means that the drivers flip the reader boards on their coaches to “To Terminal” and all passengers have to get off the bus. We are the terminal, basically. The drivers take their breaks, get coffee, use the cafe’s restroom, or do jumping jacks on their coach.

Seymour throws Beggin’ Strips onto our patio for our dog and every other house where he knows a dog lives. He is cheerful and kind, and uses his breaks to say hello to every four-legged friend that goes by his coach, spoiling them rotten with treats.

You’ll be unsurprised to hear we get our fair share of porch pirates. We’ve been fairly lucky so far, with only one clothing item shipped from UPS going permanently missing. Our security camera captured a woman stealing the package. I hope she likes the jean jacket and that it’s keeping her warm.

Like many big cities with a mild climate, we have a large unhoused population. Many people ride the busses all day, getting off while the drivers take their breaks, then getting back on the coach when it’s time to go again. The drivers know everyone who rides — so long as people are cooperative and follow the rules, they don’t mind.

Last May, a young man in his 20s, passed away outside our house.

He was riding the bus and when he didn’t get off the driver checked on him. He was unresponsive. The man was one of her regulars and she was distraught.

I was on a work call at the time and had heard a fire truck arrive but didn’t think much of it. It’s not uncommon here. But when I looked up and out past the patio there were easily five EMTs in front of my house; I could see from their shoulders up.

I peeked over the fence and there were actually nine EMTs working on him, tagging in to take turns doing chest compressions every two minutes. His chest caved and his stomach ballooned with each effort. They kept going and going and going and after what felt like forever they unhooked the wires and vent.

They said he was young and looked healthy despite looking unhoused, so they kept working to see if he’d come back.

I’m not religious but I crossed myself and thought that at least he had people who were rooting for him, in his last minutes.

An older man who was walking by when the fire truck arrived and who had comforted the bus driver came over to me and said, I wish these stories were shared on the news where nine White EMTs work on a Black guy for 30 minutes, because you know, the BLM activists, and I just nodded and said I’m glad they tried for so long too because what do you say to that. He thanked the EMT who stayed behind to wait for a cop to show up.

Eventually our townhouse and three others were blocked off with police tape. Eight cops huddled in groups, talking, catching up, holding the scene until the coroner arrived. Eight cops seemed like a lot but what did I know.

“It could take hours for the coroner to get here,” one cop told me.

I was sad, upset and antsy so I walked the dog then went on a short bike ride. When I got back, his body was just there, waiting. Someone had finally covered him up with a sheet. The bus driver who called 911 was still outside her bus, crying.

Two and a half hours later, the coroner arrived. I had peeked out our living room window and could see her carefully yanking his pants down below his belly button to check I didn’t know what. I quickly looked away and apologized to the young man out loud. A public death didn’t leave much in the way of dignity. He didn’t need extra eyes on him.

The coroner covered him back up and they took him to the morgue.

I was with my grandmother when she passed and I know she knew that I was there. I hoped this young man knew he had people there too, not family, but people who did their very best by him.

So this is where I live: behind an active bus stop, where many things happen.

We walk to the beach, get coffee from the cafe next door and pizza from the restaurant. Life and death come to us here, and we welcome it, grateful to be at a nexus that feels bigger than ourselves.

Hi! My name is Diane and I’m a mom, writer, content marketer, and outdoor enthusiast navigating this chaotic and often ridiculous world while dealing with POTS, chronic EBV, and overactive mast cells.

If you have questions about these conditions or my experience with them, please feel free to contact me in the Comments section. It takes a village.

As life happens outside my house, I’ll add to the “To terminal: Life behind a bus stop” series.

And if you enjoyed what you read here, consider buying me a coffee. Gotta stay caffeinated!