Bette had been coming out of the coop and wandering at the outer periphery of the flock. Having lost her alpha status, she lost the heart to muscle in. She avoided the others, and they acted in a way that drove her off by herself. What I probably should have done was what a friend suggested; taking her inside and turning her into a pet chicken instead of the co-housing members the others are. I am allergic to chickens, however, and having a summer of battling my hysterical immune system, I was reluctant to invite another crisis. Excuses.
Every night as the others went in to roost, I looked around for her. She would not go in to the safety of the coop that she'd refused to leave for the first 10 days after her attack. She was finding places further away from everyone and became harder to find.
Two nights ago, I couldn't find her.
Up to that point, she gave herself away by talking to herself before going to sleep. As someone who spends possibly way too much time alone, I know that it is easy to start talking to one's selves out loud. She could have been doing that. She could have been saying prayers.
She could have been asking the great clawed and furry gods of death to come and finish the job.
She escaped them once, but life wasn't what it once was, and she was hostage to the region in between a good chicken's life and someone's digestive tract.
Some people who have had near death experiences say they no longer fear death, and that they were even reluctant to return to finish this life.
Last night I couldn't find her. It was dusk, and the beak count was 5, and I circled the house and the yard hoping to hear her evening chatter, but no clucking was going on, no sound at all.
The remaining girls, now back to bridge club numbers have been treating her as though she were already gone for some time now. Chickens seem to be able to enjoy what is going on, or wait patiently until it is over with. They engage with their entire hearts and attention to the moment. The main flock knew something was wrong with Bette, and that it wasn't going to turn around.
There are events which mark us, and for who knows how long, render us as carriers if it's grief, vessels if joy.
Grave illness changes us, profound disappointment, trauma - even a turn of great good luck. People have been posting on FB how our thinking creates reality, but I recoil from that, it is too obvious to me that life creates us, and the spectrum of response we have to life is all we have to work with, and that spectrum has precious few answers.
For a grieving hen, it's a simple thing. When you can't be part of the flock, you can be part of the food chain.
Every night as the others went in to roost, I looked around for her. She would not go in to the safety of the coop that she'd refused to leave for the first 10 days after her attack. She was finding places further away from everyone and became harder to find.
Two nights ago, I couldn't find her.
Up to that point, she gave herself away by talking to herself before going to sleep. As someone who spends possibly way too much time alone, I know that it is easy to start talking to one's selves out loud. She could have been doing that. She could have been saying prayers.
She could have been asking the great clawed and furry gods of death to come and finish the job.
She escaped them once, but life wasn't what it once was, and she was hostage to the region in between a good chicken's life and someone's digestive tract.
Some people who have had near death experiences say they no longer fear death, and that they were even reluctant to return to finish this life.
Last night I couldn't find her. It was dusk, and the beak count was 5, and I circled the house and the yard hoping to hear her evening chatter, but no clucking was going on, no sound at all.
The remaining girls, now back to bridge club numbers have been treating her as though she were already gone for some time now. Chickens seem to be able to enjoy what is going on, or wait patiently until it is over with. They engage with their entire hearts and attention to the moment. The main flock knew something was wrong with Bette, and that it wasn't going to turn around.
There are events which mark us, and for who knows how long, render us as carriers if it's grief, vessels if joy.
Grave illness changes us, profound disappointment, trauma - even a turn of great good luck. People have been posting on FB how our thinking creates reality, but I recoil from that, it is too obvious to me that life creates us, and the spectrum of response we have to life is all we have to work with, and that spectrum has precious few answers.
For a grieving hen, it's a simple thing. When you can't be part of the flock, you can be part of the food chain.
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