In a land full of stags, a stag fell ill.
Around him thronged a clamorous multitude of friends, all hoping they might cure, console, or see, at least, their ailing chum.
“Hey, guys, stop blubbing. Let me die. Let fate dissolve me in that unfelt frolic of the sun’s.”
His comforters were not so easily dismissed; they had their duty to fulfill.
But comforting is hungry work. They ate the sick stag’s sickbed, did those wishers-well. The stag died, having no grass left to graze.
Exorbitant are doctors’ bills these days.