Although Boomer the heath hen did have a return story in my book Deader Than a Dodo, his presonal Lazarus Tale is yet to be written. Boomer the heath hen’s account from my book, Deader Than a Dodo. There were now only two more creatures in line until my turn to share, and I had trouble focusing on what was being said. Another bird began to share. He looked like a small chicken of some kind, like the kind I have sometimes seen around the research station, but he had reddish-brown bands running around his plump little body. This chicken-like bird had a very stumpy, rounded tail and a set of two longer triangular feathers jutting down from his throat. “I am the heath hen, and my chosen name was originally Ben, but given the fact that her name is Benjamin,” the heath hen said motioning to the last creature in line, “I’ve decided to take on one of my nicknames from when I was among the people, Boomer. True they called me “Booming Ben” because of my elaborate dance moves, but I think Boomer has a little more pizzazz,” Boomer said enthusiastically. Then he put his head down dragging his wings along the ground and inflating some sort of small orangish balloons on the side of his throat similar to the frigate birds which flew around the CDRS back on the Galapagos Islands. He definitely could dance in ways that I could never dream of, but I realized my head, like many of those in line, began involuntarily bopping to Boomer’s rhythmic beat. As he stood up again, recovering from his spontaneous dancing, Boomer continued, “Heath hens were never known for being shy. We really liked to be the center of attention and were even at the first Thanksgiving in the new world. Like the passenger pigeon over there, we once roamed the eastern portion of the area known as the United States. Heath hens were once very plentiful and served as a food source for the servant people. Like many of us here, I have faith in the people to change which is why I have joined this mission. They tried many times to help my kind. As early as 1791, some people in the United States passed a law protecting heath hens, but many people misinterpreted this law as protecting “heathens”, which is what they called the native people they were fighting against at the time. Needless to say, the law didn’t help my kind. In 1870 the people did notice that heath hens were rapidly disappearing, so they rounded up the remaining 300 or so of us, and put us on Martha’s Vineyard, no relation to the chatty passenger pigeon over there. The people said we’d be safe there, except the wild cats on the island took their toll on us. By 1908 people came from all over to see us do our dances and our population was ‘booming’,” he said air quoting and smirking at me. “The people were confident we’d recover until the untimely fire of 1916. This decimated our population, and we never really recovered. The last two females died in 1927. By December of the next year, I was the only one. I danced my heart out for the people,” Boomer said proudly. “I knew they did their best to try to save my kind, but after my grandest dancing ever, I bowed out March 11, 1932.” Boomer strutted back into his spot.