Meg is wandering again
in smaller and smaller circles
driving us round the bend.
What is she thinking?
She worries the others.
A few days later
when we let her out she begins
circling again until
she huddles beneath the bird bath
and will not move.
We shift her.
She crawls under a bush
where she’s hard to reach.
The cat who often bothers the chooks
leaves her alone.
That night it rains and rains.
In the morning she’s bedraggled.
Dead.
I lift her into the earth.
There isn’t much of her.
The chooks settle after that.
So do we.
John Malone 
When things go wrong, there are signs, but we can’t always understand the meaning of the signs, or even realise they are signs of anything important. And even if one does realise the signs are important, not everything requires action …
Life and death are like that …
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I fear you are right, Carolyn; do chooks get dementia? the other chooks shunned her in her last days 😦 cruel and sad :{
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It is like life. We shun the people we cannot understand, no matter it is old age, mental illness or just being gay.
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it saddens me that this should be so, but there it is; maybe it’s because their difference is perceived as being some sort of threat or rejection of our values or something we don’t want to thiink about?
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