She never took any more notice of her chickens, who had to be brought up by hand, and she never mixed again with the society of the poultry-yard.

At night she roosted apart in the coalshed, and she never seemed to hear my voice or distinguish me from others, though she was perfectly tame to everybody.

Kitty's end was very tragical.

She grew exceedingly fat, and at last, one time when we were all snowed up and could not afford to be sentimental, my cook laid hold of poor Kitty, who was moping in her usual corner, and converted her into a savoury stew without telling me, until I had actually dined off her.

I was very angry; but Eliza only repeated by way of consolation, "She had no wits, only flesh, consequently she was better in my stew-pot nor anywhere else, mum, if you'll only look at it calm like." But it was very hard to be made to eat one's patient, especially when I was so proud of the way her poor head had healed.
If anybody wanted to teaze me, they suggested that I had omitted to replace my dear Kitty's brains before closing that cruel wound in her skull..