|Now, what was it that I was looking for?|
(This image is ©Nancy Banks,
and can't be used without her written consent.)
Previously on this blog, Floyd was bitten, plucked alive, denied a sweater, and given sound veterinary advice. Now the healing starts.
Floyd’s bruises slowly faded,
and we got to be quite friendly over the weeks.
I changed her litter every day,
and she hobbled around the utility room while I
shredded more newspaper for her.
I talked to her;
she talked back,
with that low, purring cluck
that chickens use
when they feel okay
But as soon as her feathers grew back,
Floyd got restless.
She still limped, but she got around pretty well,
and I'd take her outside
She'd gimp around, looking everywhere
For something she had apparently lost,
and she stopped talking to me.
So eventually I took her back up the hill
to the coop and her kind,
and she realized that it was her flock that she'd misplaced.
She was pleased
to finally find it.
And because this is a
story about a
and not a dog or even a cat,
Floyd forgot me.
She didn't recognize me when I fed and watered everybody
or when I collected her eggs.
She ignored me when I talked to her.
I think it was
When she was down to just skin,
the differences between us
didn't seem so huge.
But when she had her feathers back,
she was a bird again,
As for Shorty, well,
there's a saying in my family
that the unjust
One Sunday when we were out running errands,
He tunneled under the fence,
and tried to herd a car
that was going 50 mph.
It was a glorious
No one really mourned him,