Emily is dying

One of the Bronte sisters is dying. It is Emily but, I admit, it is difficult to tell them apart. She is hold up in the house, sitting on her perch with eyes closed. She is slowly fading away. I made the rookie mistake of naming my chickens. The three Orpingtons I named the Bronte sisters. They are big-breasted, Rubinesque, lusty, and always looking for a quick snack. Good layers who produced big, fat brown eggs. Now, Emily is dying. When chickens are dying, they remove themselves from the flow of events in the hen house. Sometimes, they will hid their heads and crouch in a corner. They quit eating. They don’t drink water. When I went into the house on Sunday I found Emily disengaged, glassy eyed, and looking as if she had given up. I knew in an instant that it was over for her. She was saying her good-byes. She continues to remain detached and sinking today. I expect her to die within the next 48 to 72 hours. I have buried a number of aged chickens who died in the same way. I prefer this to me chopping off their heads. Old birds have lived long enough to deserve more respect than ending up in a stock pot. I am sorry to see Emily go but I prefer she have her end in her way rather than mine. When she passes, I will dig a grave near the stream that feeds the lake and place her in it. The Old Goat says that animals don't have souls. He learned that from Jimmy Swaggert. As far as I am concerned, I will bury Emily and I will ask God to accept her into His hen house, trusting that He recognizes her authetic heart and genuine nature.