Rest in peace, little Bo

Little Bo, always the runt, but with so much spirit
She had my heart from the start

And so it ends – the Guinea Fowl Chronicles, which started back in October 2008 when little Bo Peep and her family arrived in our garden.

You’ve taken the journey with me, watched over little Ms Bo and applauded her spirit and determination to survive. You’ve fretted with me when she was ill, cheered as she grew. I believe she found a place in all your hearts.

And now she is gone.

Ms Bo's family
October 2008

Ms Bo, waiting for her handout of maggots

You’ll recall that in the post I did before going on holiday, I said that Ms Bo had been seen in the garden again. She came back almost daily with the Ba-Kaaka Nostra – but she was never really part of them.

In the garden in May, free at last

Keeping company with the usual suspects

As the winter settled in bringing cold, driving rain so the guinea fowl became more aggressive about feeding. Bo, because she hadn’t been able to integrate with the flock, found it increasingly difficult to feed. I’d put food out separately for her, but as soon as she started to eat one of the males would chase her away. Two weeks ago, it struck me that she’d lost body mass.

She started to stay in the garden, keeping clear of the Ba-Kaaka Nostra and other flocks that come here to feed. She’d feed when she could, with me standing guard a few meters away, then she’d lie in the sun, trying to keep warm. But it soon became obvious that not only was she losing weight, she was also ill. She was increasingly hunched, cold and listless and she clearly had a gut problem. She took to lying around in the sun, barely eating.

I found some darkling beetles and enticed her to eat. But the food wasn’t enough with bitter cold of the night. Last Wednesday I managed to catch her – and that was a bad sign. She was feathers and bone – her body mass all gone, the strength she’d had when she’d escaped and left here, wittled away to nothing. She didn’t even struggle.

I brought her inside and popped her in the big dog traveling cage. Her eyes dulled almost immediately. You could see her thinking, “Oh no, not this again, not caged.”

We kept her warm and fed her on mealworms and grain – but she really wasn’t terribly interested. I cleaned her beak for her because she was too lethargic to do so herself. She slept for most of Thursday. On Friday I took her to the avian vet.

“I’ll do what I can,” said the vet, “we’ll give her a chance. I’ll incubate her, give her antibiotics and vitamins. I’ll deworm her and crop feed her if necessary. I’ll give her the best care I can. And I’ll call you on Sunday evening.”

She called me on Monday morning. Ms Bo had died a few hours before. She’d perked up on Saturday the vet said, gone down again on Sunday. The vet was going to ask to keep her a few days longer. But Ms Bo took the decision for herself – and for her, it was probably the right one.

She never wanted to be a pet or a domesticated guinea fowl but likewise, she couldn’t survive on her own in the surburban “wild”. So she left and went home.

Ms Bo is buried in the herb garden, under the asparagus fern were she used to sleep with her mother when she was a tiny keet. There’s a hole in our hearts and the garden seems an emptier place without her. But she had her moments of contentment, her culinary delights and a taste of freedom.

“Think,” said D, “She was able to roost in the gum tree and watch the sun rise. What a thrill that must have been for her.”

Rest in peace, little Bo.

Ms Bo - last Wednesday October 2008 - 15 June 2009

Dancing with David

He’s been watching me for months. I know he’s there, just beyond the edge of my vision, standing on a vast open plain, poised, immobile. It is hard to see him, the sky is dark, low and he rises into it. Each day as I weaken he comes a little closer. His eyes on me. Waiting. The silent observer. I grow used to him, I call him David. Yet his constant presence unnerves me.

I know why he is there but I don’t know why he waits. I am uneasy and fear and foreboding shiver in ever widening tingles up my spine, clamp to my head, bend me. I am afraid of what he is, of what he brings - of where he wants to take me. I am paralysed by my fear. I don’t like it - and I resent being afraid.

I remember what I’ve always told myself. Face your fear – it will shrink, become insignificant.

So I turn to him. Take him by surprise.

“I know you’re there. We both know why you’re here. Come on then, get on with it.”

He faces me. He is beautiful - unexpectedly so. And gentle. His face is still and serene. Dark eyelashes curve above black eyes, a fringe of lustrous hair flops over his brow. He is ageless. Always has been. Tall, broad-shouldered, collected, at ease. He smiles. A slow smile and behind him the plain lights up.

This is not what I expected.

I move towards him, curious. He takes my hand.

“Shall we go now?” I ask.

He smiles. He never speaks. He doesn’t need words. He is beyond them. I know this.

Instead his thoughts filter into my mind.

“Not now.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You intrigue me. Not many watch me as you do. Few reach out to me as you have done. Most are afraid of me.”

Yes, most are... But he isn’t frightening. Whatever he brings… it isn’t fear. He comes with peace – and tranquility.

“Can I go with you?” I ask unable to wrest my eyes from his. Deep, languid pools in which I am drowning…

He smiles. “No.”

He holds me to him. It is the very embrace I thought I would always fear, the one I should run from. But I am not afraid. I have no desire to run. Instead I want to stay enfolded in his arms forever. I am falling in love with him. I am dancing with him...comforted and easy in his embrace… I want it to last forever - want to stay with him. I crave this peaceful end, which he will not let come. Not now. Not tonight.

He turns away, his eyes soft and smiling still. He steps back from me, walks away, receding into the vastness of the plain until he is there yet not there. I stand and watch him, my heart torn. I should be glad but instead, I am sad. But I know… He will always be watching me and one day I will dance with David for eternity.

The Door Home...?

The darkness crept closer, enfolding me in inky arms. It pressed down against me. I couldn't... couldn't fight it off.
My life force was ebbing away - ebbing, seeping from me as though something had pulled my plug and I was emptying myself of that which kept me alive.
Fear sprang through the darkness - clutched at me, strangling me with terror.
I wanted to push it away... but I was devoid of strength.
There was no choice... but to accept. I was dying.
And in that moment of acceptance came clarity and peace.
The absolute nothingness of the dark lightened just a little... to a twilight... dim, filtered light, grey, watchful...
I was standing on a giant chess board... rough stone, cracked and worn beneath my feet. To my right, a towering stone wall - a fortress perhaps. To my left, the black silhouettes of spiring firs - marching up an infinite peak. Behind me... I don't know. Life, I suppose.
And ahead of me... A vast door set within another wall of stone.
I stood in the monochromatic gloom, looking, without comprehension... wondering...
Where was I?
I could not go back, could not even turn around to see from whence I'd come. The forest was forbidding, though the trees were strangely observant, almost protective. They seemed to represent some aspect of the life I was leaving behind.
I faced the door and advanced. It was what I was meant to do. Intuitively, I knew that.
The door swung open - just a fraction.
Light spilled out. White-golden luminance... shining so brightly I could hardly bear to look at it. But I wanted it. Oh yes, I wanted that light. I knew what it was. It was home.
The door - the portal between worlds.
The door opened further and I moved closer to it, reaching out with my innermost core to the brilliance that flooded through it.
They talk of the white light when they talk of near death experiences, don't they...? So... this was it... only there was no tunnel, just the chess board... the remnant of the game of life...
The fear left me. I surrendered. I wasn't losing my life. I was returning to it. Returning to the soul pool. Returning to the source of all created things. Oh yes. I wanted to go home. Please. Let me come home. My life force, the very last drops of it, trickled away... Calm descended upon me... total tranquility...
I... was... going... home...
A jolt surged through me. Then another. And another.
The life force pulsed into my being. The doorway began to close. No!
Not yet. Not my time. Not now...
I felt sensation return to my limbs.
I held the light in my heart, in my mind's eye - and slept.

What is death, after all, the beginning or the end? We've made it into something it's not - or have we? Which is the illusion... death? Or life?



(Both images used in this post were duly nicked off the internet and I am grateful that they serve my words so well - to the creators, whoever you are, thank you.)