The Floydyssey (Part Four)

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.

The Floydyssey

Part Four

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

about

their world.

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

for constitutionals.

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

chicken,

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

the feathers.

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,

and I

wasn't.

As for Shorty, well,

there's a saying in my family

that the unjust

punish themselves.

One Sunday when we were out running errands,

He tunneled under the fence,

squeezed out,

and tried to herd a car

that was going 50 mph.

It was a glorious

but

fatal

attempt.

No one really mourned him,

especially Floyd.