Due to blogger having a bit of a tantrum, I've been unable to update you on Mabel's condition. You'll be pleased to hear that right now, our illustrious leader is mooching about the garden with the rest of the flock. Despite things looking quite grim on Wednesday, my millefleur girl has surprised me. I'm still not entirely sure what was wrong with her, but seeing as though the baytril appears to have worked, I'm assuming some kind of infection. She will continue to reluctantly take her medicine until tomorrow.
Yesterday, Mabel was living in the parakeet cage in the downstairs loo. It was the best place to put her so that she was warm, quiet and undisturbed. Well, apart from the children randomly bursting in to sling their shoes towards the shoe rack. On the whole, she took this quite well. Once the children were at school, however, she had a whole day to convalesce. Now that I knew her Achilles heel, I made sure that mabel's food bowl contained some chopped grapes mixed in with her pellets and probiotic yoghurt. Every so often, I peeked my head around the door to check on her. Most times, I found her sat in a corner, looking fed up. I would make encouraging noises and then leave her in peace. Although I was seeing signs of improvement, I still was unsure as to how this story of Mabel's would end.
Shortly after lunch I checked again on the housebound hen. And was surprised to find her on her feet. And looking bright eyed and interested. As I watched, she homed in on the corner of her cage and began frantically pecking. Intrigued, I leant in closer. It seemed that an ants nest had established itself near the downstairs toilet on the outside wall, and it's inhabitants were no going forth to expand their territories. As I contemplated the cruelty of fate that would place an ant scoffing predator right by their back door, Mabel hoovered up several more tasty insects. I'm sure they went marvellously with the yoghurt/grape combo.
Since taking part in ant Armageddon, Mabel seems much improved. This morning, she was well enough to not only redecorate the floor of her cage in poo, but also shriek loudly until I got up to get her some breakfast. As I watched her devour her porridge, I decided to let her outside.
I admit I was nervous letting her back within sight of the flock. Mabel has been top hen for three years, and I wasn't sure what would happen. I was surprised to note that all of the hens deferred to her apart from the gobby Doris. It seems that Doris has ideas above her station, and she pecked Mabel's comb. My eyebrows were lost in my hair line when Mabel allowed this to happen, and didn't retaliate. I fully expected Maeve to make a bid for the leadership title, but not Doris. In the event, Maeve barely seemed to notice the power shift. As I have previously suspected, ASBO Chicken seems to live outside of chickenny social boundaries. She's a chicken renegade.
Despite some surprising changes, I'm very glad to have Mabel still with us.
Showing posts with label Baytril. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baytril. Show all posts
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Not A Good Day
When I closed up the hens last night, I found Mabel in the nest box. I could kick myself now for not thinking anything of it, but I didn't. I assumed she was thinking of going broody, so left her to it. Likewise, when I found her still in the nest box this morning I just lifted her to put her on the grass and assumed she was being hormonal. Except the wood shavings under her were very wet. And she wasn't growling.
On closer inspection, I discovered that Mabel was very wet all around her vent area. The feathers were saturated. Now, chickens don't generally wee, so something was up. I popped her on to the grass. She stood still, tail and wings lowered. Oh, this was not good. Lifting her tail, I noticed that her vent was pulsating.
I hurriedly scooped her up and brought her in to the house. Mabel allowed this without a murmur, and that confirmed to me that I had a very sick chicken. I considered the possibility that she was egg bound, so ran a warm sink of water and gave her a soak. She lay on my hand looking miserable. Gently, I felt her abdomen for a stuck egg. I found nothing. After a few minutes, I lifted her from the water and wrapped her in a towel.
As usual with a chicken crisis, my first port of call was Twitter and the amazing chicken community which exists there. Several fellow chook keepers agreed with the egg bound theory, so Mabel was given yet another warm bath. Her vent continued to pulsate, but all that she produced was a thin foul smelling liquid. It was suggested that I examined her vent more intimately. Steeping myself against the horror, I oiled up my index finger and...probed. This got a reaction from Mabel. She attempted to leave the vicinity rather sharpish, so I decided enough probing had been done. We avoided eye contact and I bleached my hand. If only there was brain bleach.
With a sick hen and no obvious cause, we made our way to the vet. The vet gave Mabel the once over, and found her temperature to be on the low side. He was also unable to feel any obvious blockage in her internal gubbins. Her comb and face are red and healthy looking. There is no obvious sign or worms or parasites. Her weight and general condition seems good. With a scratch of his head, the vet decided that Mabel may have some kind of internal infection. He gave her a shot of baytril and has sent me home with more medicine to treat her with.
So now my beautiful top hen is situated in the pet carrier in the lounge next to a heater. She is sat, hunched, in her box. I managed to get her to eat some sloppy porridge earlier, but she has no interest now. She is sleeping a lot. If I knew what was wrong with her I'd feel a bit better about the whole thing.
Unfortunately, we just have to wait and see.
On closer inspection, I discovered that Mabel was very wet all around her vent area. The feathers were saturated. Now, chickens don't generally wee, so something was up. I popped her on to the grass. She stood still, tail and wings lowered. Oh, this was not good. Lifting her tail, I noticed that her vent was pulsating.
I hurriedly scooped her up and brought her in to the house. Mabel allowed this without a murmur, and that confirmed to me that I had a very sick chicken. I considered the possibility that she was egg bound, so ran a warm sink of water and gave her a soak. She lay on my hand looking miserable. Gently, I felt her abdomen for a stuck egg. I found nothing. After a few minutes, I lifted her from the water and wrapped her in a towel.
As usual with a chicken crisis, my first port of call was Twitter and the amazing chicken community which exists there. Several fellow chook keepers agreed with the egg bound theory, so Mabel was given yet another warm bath. Her vent continued to pulsate, but all that she produced was a thin foul smelling liquid. It was suggested that I examined her vent more intimately. Steeping myself against the horror, I oiled up my index finger and...probed. This got a reaction from Mabel. She attempted to leave the vicinity rather sharpish, so I decided enough probing had been done. We avoided eye contact and I bleached my hand. If only there was brain bleach.
With a sick hen and no obvious cause, we made our way to the vet. The vet gave Mabel the once over, and found her temperature to be on the low side. He was also unable to feel any obvious blockage in her internal gubbins. Her comb and face are red and healthy looking. There is no obvious sign or worms or parasites. Her weight and general condition seems good. With a scratch of his head, the vet decided that Mabel may have some kind of internal infection. He gave her a shot of baytril and has sent me home with more medicine to treat her with.
So now my beautiful top hen is situated in the pet carrier in the lounge next to a heater. She is sat, hunched, in her box. I managed to get her to eat some sloppy porridge earlier, but she has no interest now. She is sleeping a lot. If I knew what was wrong with her I'd feel a bit better about the whole thing.
Unfortunately, we just have to wait and see.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Painful Separations
Doris is now in residence in the garage. The hospital wing has swung in to action and she is not overly impressed. Since thursday evening, I have been squirting .2ml of Baytril down her throat twice a day, and she has been making her displeasure known. Her condition seems no worse but no better. She seems to spend most of her time sitting in the mini coop and I can't be sure that she's eating or drinking unless I put her out in to the hospital run. Then, she pecks about a bit, drinks and nibbles at her food. This could be a sign of serious illness. Equally, it could be a sign of a depressed hen who has been separated from her flock.
Her demeanour isn't hunched, and she is still carrying her tail high. I don't think she's lost any weight, and she doesn't feel thin or scrawny. I feel sorry for her, locked away on her own in the garage to be honest. However, I know that the best way of ensuring her recovery, and the rest of the flock's health, is to continue as I am. The rest of the girls seem well, but I am keeping a close eye. They also seem oblivious to Doris being missing. Chickens are not generally sentimental creatures.
Celia has finally given up on being broody. I was just congratulating myself for this development when I spotted a huge pile of feathers in the corner of the Palace. Celia has chosen January to go in to moult. I swear that bird's biological clock is wonky. She is back mixing with the flock, and belatedly duffing up Gladys and Hilda. When she can catch them. Which is not often. Those hens can move. I was stroking her yesterday while she chatted away to me when something rather embarassing happened. I tickled her under the chin, while surruptitiously checking her general condition. Being broody for weeks on end rarely results in a beauty queen. I gave her a quick once over and was pleased to find her healthy, if just a bit scruffy. I ran my hand down her back and through her tail. And when I lifted my hand, most of her tail came with it. It was like a dandelion clock getting caught in a strong breeze. I looked down at my hand full of feathers, and looked at the hen in shock. For her part, she seemed to register from my reaction that something was up. Straining her neck around, she clocked her own bald bum. I've never seen a hen do a double take before, but Celia was clearly astonished. She looked at me, looked at the empty air where her once fine cushion had been, looked at the feathers in my hand and then squawked with horror. We both felt a bit awkward at this point, I suspect. I couldn't very well stick Celia's bum back on, and she couldn't easily walk away with any dignity. It was a stalemate. Being the human, I decided it was my responsibility to bring this encounter to an end. I took my handful of Celia to the composter, giving her the perfect opportunity to scuttle away in to the shrubbery to inspect the damage.
I later saw her rearranging what was left, much in the way a balding man might try and fashion a comb over. Poor chook.
(In completely unrelated news, I wanted to let everyone know about Hedwig. Hedwig was the little frizzle cockerel I hatched in the summer who I initially christened Nigel. He went to live with a lovely Twitter friend and was spoiled rotten. Sadly, Hedwig was found dead yesterday. With no obvious signs of illness, and no sign of attack, it seems it was just his time. My sympathies go to his owner, who I know adored the crazy little shuttlecock. I'll admit to feeling a little sad at his passing, but also know that his short life would have been extremely priviliged.)
Her demeanour isn't hunched, and she is still carrying her tail high. I don't think she's lost any weight, and she doesn't feel thin or scrawny. I feel sorry for her, locked away on her own in the garage to be honest. However, I know that the best way of ensuring her recovery, and the rest of the flock's health, is to continue as I am. The rest of the girls seem well, but I am keeping a close eye. They also seem oblivious to Doris being missing. Chickens are not generally sentimental creatures.
Celia has finally given up on being broody. I was just congratulating myself for this development when I spotted a huge pile of feathers in the corner of the Palace. Celia has chosen January to go in to moult. I swear that bird's biological clock is wonky. She is back mixing with the flock, and belatedly duffing up Gladys and Hilda. When she can catch them. Which is not often. Those hens can move. I was stroking her yesterday while she chatted away to me when something rather embarassing happened. I tickled her under the chin, while surruptitiously checking her general condition. Being broody for weeks on end rarely results in a beauty queen. I gave her a quick once over and was pleased to find her healthy, if just a bit scruffy. I ran my hand down her back and through her tail. And when I lifted my hand, most of her tail came with it. It was like a dandelion clock getting caught in a strong breeze. I looked down at my hand full of feathers, and looked at the hen in shock. For her part, she seemed to register from my reaction that something was up. Straining her neck around, she clocked her own bald bum. I've never seen a hen do a double take before, but Celia was clearly astonished. She looked at me, looked at the empty air where her once fine cushion had been, looked at the feathers in my hand and then squawked with horror. We both felt a bit awkward at this point, I suspect. I couldn't very well stick Celia's bum back on, and she couldn't easily walk away with any dignity. It was a stalemate. Being the human, I decided it was my responsibility to bring this encounter to an end. I took my handful of Celia to the composter, giving her the perfect opportunity to scuttle away in to the shrubbery to inspect the damage.
I later saw her rearranging what was left, much in the way a balding man might try and fashion a comb over. Poor chook.
(In completely unrelated news, I wanted to let everyone know about Hedwig. Hedwig was the little frizzle cockerel I hatched in the summer who I initially christened Nigel. He went to live with a lovely Twitter friend and was spoiled rotten. Sadly, Hedwig was found dead yesterday. With no obvious signs of illness, and no sign of attack, it seems it was just his time. My sympathies go to his owner, who I know adored the crazy little shuttlecock. I'll admit to feeling a little sad at his passing, but also know that his short life would have been extremely priviliged.)
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Doris, Again
Well, isn't this nice. Doris is now bubbling at both eyes. No signs of respiratory distress (wheezing, coughing etc). If I put my ear to her back there's no scary bubbling sounds. Her face doesn't smell bad, and here nostrils are clear. There is no swelling apart from some slight inner eyelid irritation. None of the other hens seem remotely symptomatic. I could scream.
I last treated Doris for something very similair at the beginning of last November. The vet prescribed Baytril, and I had to bribe my lovely chicken sitter with a bottle of good Merlot to fire the medicine down Doris's throat three times a day. It was a tad stressful for all concerned. I am quite disheartened to find myself back at square one.
Doris is one of four hens that I bought from one breeder. The others were Delilah, Belinda and Mini. Can you spot a connection there? Yep, the other three are all ex-hens, and were within a year. They all died of different conditions and cost a significant amount of money to treat. I thought that perhaps we'd got lucky with Doris. However, within weeks of bringing her home initially she'd had an eye issue. On and off, there have been flare ups of spotty eyelids and bubbling. I can only assume that Doris has dormant myco which comes to the fore when she is stressed/under the weather anyway. Since the New Year I have been adding various tonics and supplements to the girls' feed and water in an effort to ward off the nasties. I am still waiting for the colloidal silver to arrive.
So now I am once again contemplating the vet and yet another course of Baytril. This is not really a good or smart move. I am loathe to go down the route I did with my beloved Mini, spending months and literally hundreds of pounds attempting to cure something which was ultimately uncurable. If I was a breeder, I'd probably be thinking of dispatching Doris off to that big coop in the sky. And yet. Yet, she is a pet. She has been with me now for two and a half years. I cannot and will not see her in pain or suffering. So when I finish this post, I will once again phone the vet. I will attempt to convince him to prescribe the Baytril without making me and a poorly hen trek down to the surgery. If I am successful, I will spend the next seven days wrapping Doris in a towel and forcing meds down her reluctant throat. I will do all this and hope that it works. And all the time I will know that it is probably pointless. That she will probably get ill again. That I am possibly risking the rest of my flock.
Sorry for the depressing post, but I am feeling really quite disheartened.
I last treated Doris for something very similair at the beginning of last November. The vet prescribed Baytril, and I had to bribe my lovely chicken sitter with a bottle of good Merlot to fire the medicine down Doris's throat three times a day. It was a tad stressful for all concerned. I am quite disheartened to find myself back at square one.
Doris is one of four hens that I bought from one breeder. The others were Delilah, Belinda and Mini. Can you spot a connection there? Yep, the other three are all ex-hens, and were within a year. They all died of different conditions and cost a significant amount of money to treat. I thought that perhaps we'd got lucky with Doris. However, within weeks of bringing her home initially she'd had an eye issue. On and off, there have been flare ups of spotty eyelids and bubbling. I can only assume that Doris has dormant myco which comes to the fore when she is stressed/under the weather anyway. Since the New Year I have been adding various tonics and supplements to the girls' feed and water in an effort to ward off the nasties. I am still waiting for the colloidal silver to arrive.
So now I am once again contemplating the vet and yet another course of Baytril. This is not really a good or smart move. I am loathe to go down the route I did with my beloved Mini, spending months and literally hundreds of pounds attempting to cure something which was ultimately uncurable. If I was a breeder, I'd probably be thinking of dispatching Doris off to that big coop in the sky. And yet. Yet, she is a pet. She has been with me now for two and a half years. I cannot and will not see her in pain or suffering. So when I finish this post, I will once again phone the vet. I will attempt to convince him to prescribe the Baytril without making me and a poorly hen trek down to the surgery. If I am successful, I will spend the next seven days wrapping Doris in a towel and forcing meds down her reluctant throat. I will do all this and hope that it works. And all the time I will know that it is probably pointless. That she will probably get ill again. That I am possibly risking the rest of my flock.
Sorry for the depressing post, but I am feeling really quite disheartened.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
An Indignity Too Far
After this mornings post I spent a few hours ruminating on the problem of Doris's spotty eye. Eventually, I decided I'd rather take her to the vet and be mugged for twenty quid while the vet looked vaguely puzzled than live with the uncertainty. At least then my conscience would be clear. As luck would have it, though, I managed to get an appointment with a thoroughly charming vet who had recently been on a poultry course. Result!
The hens have become wary of the cat carrier. All too often they have seen one of their flockmates packed in to it and returned to them some time later with a haunted look in their eyes. Or worse, not returned at all. Therefore, Doris did not greet the sight of the carrier with glee. In fact, as I attempted to gently lower her in to it, she spread her wings and essentially made herself a cat carrier hat. After some careful folding, I had the grumbling girl secured. The rest of the flock looked on solemnly with barely a murmur.
Doris behaved herself impeccably en route to the surgery. I placed the carrier on my lap in the passenger seat and she bopped her head away to a Nickelback song. Chickens have limited taste in music, I find. She looked merely interested as we pulled up in the car park, and slightly bored as we walked up the steps to the reception. All going well so far.
After checking in, we took a seat in the waiting room. At this point Doris seemed to work out that Something Was Up. Neck stretched high, she bokked a low alarm call. I soothed her and hoped that no one was about to barge in with an excitable terrier. Yep, thought Doris, Something Is Definitely Up. She was just working her way up to a full on 'I am NOT liking this!' bokking crescendo when the charming vet ushered us in.
She decided to go along with it as the vet lifted her up and looked at her this way and that. She even sat placidly while he used a bright light to examine her spotty eye. When he squeezed the area above her nostrils, she told him off but managed to restrain herself from removing his fingernail. I was quite proud. At this point, the vet was thinking that some eye ointment was all that was necessary. However, just as he was about to dispense the ointment, he decided to just check her temperature. Instructing me to hold her still facing me, he advanced with the thermometer.
Now, some people will tell you that it is very hard to read expressions on a birds face. Some might say impossible. Chickens are without eyebrows or lips, so they are rather limited it's true. However, when the vet took Doris's temperature the shock was very much written all over her small beaky chops. Eyes wide and beak hanging open, the poor girl just could not believe that this was happening. Stunned in to silence initially, she let out an air raid siren of 'How very dare you!'. Withdrawing the thermometer, the vet was just telling me that Doris had a temperature of 107.5F (a normal body temperature for a chicken is around 104F) when she got her revenge. I knew the signs as she dipped her head and lifted her tail but didn't get a chance to warn the poor vet. He found his pristine examining table, and not a small portion of his white coat, splattered with narky hen excrement. Feeling that her point had been made, Doris turned around and glared at him. Hastily, I shoved her back in to the carrier and made a speedy exit.
So Doris is on Baytril, a small dose twice a day, to treat an infection. The vet also gave her an injection of Baytril to get it in to her system. I have put her back out with the flock rather than seperate her. It's a tricky line to tread when it comes to seperation versus flock integration, but right now I think she's better with her chums. I am hoping to see a marked improvement come the weekend as we are travelling.
So now I have to break the news to my hen sitter that she will have to administer oral antibiotics to a small chicken. I should probably buy her a bottle of wine.
The hens have become wary of the cat carrier. All too often they have seen one of their flockmates packed in to it and returned to them some time later with a haunted look in their eyes. Or worse, not returned at all. Therefore, Doris did not greet the sight of the carrier with glee. In fact, as I attempted to gently lower her in to it, she spread her wings and essentially made herself a cat carrier hat. After some careful folding, I had the grumbling girl secured. The rest of the flock looked on solemnly with barely a murmur.
Doris behaved herself impeccably en route to the surgery. I placed the carrier on my lap in the passenger seat and she bopped her head away to a Nickelback song. Chickens have limited taste in music, I find. She looked merely interested as we pulled up in the car park, and slightly bored as we walked up the steps to the reception. All going well so far.
After checking in, we took a seat in the waiting room. At this point Doris seemed to work out that Something Was Up. Neck stretched high, she bokked a low alarm call. I soothed her and hoped that no one was about to barge in with an excitable terrier. Yep, thought Doris, Something Is Definitely Up. She was just working her way up to a full on 'I am NOT liking this!' bokking crescendo when the charming vet ushered us in.
She decided to go along with it as the vet lifted her up and looked at her this way and that. She even sat placidly while he used a bright light to examine her spotty eye. When he squeezed the area above her nostrils, she told him off but managed to restrain herself from removing his fingernail. I was quite proud. At this point, the vet was thinking that some eye ointment was all that was necessary. However, just as he was about to dispense the ointment, he decided to just check her temperature. Instructing me to hold her still facing me, he advanced with the thermometer.
Now, some people will tell you that it is very hard to read expressions on a birds face. Some might say impossible. Chickens are without eyebrows or lips, so they are rather limited it's true. However, when the vet took Doris's temperature the shock was very much written all over her small beaky chops. Eyes wide and beak hanging open, the poor girl just could not believe that this was happening. Stunned in to silence initially, she let out an air raid siren of 'How very dare you!'. Withdrawing the thermometer, the vet was just telling me that Doris had a temperature of 107.5F (a normal body temperature for a chicken is around 104F) when she got her revenge. I knew the signs as she dipped her head and lifted her tail but didn't get a chance to warn the poor vet. He found his pristine examining table, and not a small portion of his white coat, splattered with narky hen excrement. Feeling that her point had been made, Doris turned around and glared at him. Hastily, I shoved her back in to the carrier and made a speedy exit.
So Doris is on Baytril, a small dose twice a day, to treat an infection. The vet also gave her an injection of Baytril to get it in to her system. I have put her back out with the flock rather than seperate her. It's a tricky line to tread when it comes to seperation versus flock integration, but right now I think she's better with her chums. I am hoping to see a marked improvement come the weekend as we are travelling.
So now I have to break the news to my hen sitter that she will have to administer oral antibiotics to a small chicken. I should probably buy her a bottle of wine.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Mystery Layer
Quick update on Mini. After trying baytril, and more tylan, Mini is now having eye drops administered three times a day. The eye is a mess, and the horrid, thick eye cheese continues to be a problem. After liberating some from her upper eyelid yesterday, I very nearly threw up. Mini bears this treatment with understandable panic, but no malice. The eye is open, but looks awful. On the plus side, Mini is well in herself, happily rootling around the garden for tasty tidbits and leading the charge when it comes to treats. She is eating and drinking normally, so I am slightly more confident that she will survive whatever this infection is.
On a more happy note, one more of my girls is now laying (I say one more, because Maeve has yet to stop. That hen is a powerhouse of production!) Last week, I found a quite spherical egg in the run. Tinted like Maeve's, but a different shape. It still might have been Maeve's, I suppose, but I can't think why she wouldn't have laid in the nest box. It also closely resembled the kind of egg that a certain eye-infected chook used to lay. Then, two days ago I found a perfectly formed, slightly smaller, yet shiny, egg in 'Maeve's' nest box. This one was definitely not down to my ASBO chicken. Today, I have found another egg matching the description of the first.
Now, I'm fairly certain that this small, shiny egg layer is not one of my 'regulars'. My money is on the demented bog brush sisters, aka the silkies. So, I have diligently followed them around the garden, hand outstretched, in an effort to see if they crouch. They don't. They simply take off around the garden like road runner. Hmmmm.
The mystery deepens.....
On a more happy note, one more of my girls is now laying (I say one more, because Maeve has yet to stop. That hen is a powerhouse of production!) Last week, I found a quite spherical egg in the run. Tinted like Maeve's, but a different shape. It still might have been Maeve's, I suppose, but I can't think why she wouldn't have laid in the nest box. It also closely resembled the kind of egg that a certain eye-infected chook used to lay. Then, two days ago I found a perfectly formed, slightly smaller, yet shiny, egg in 'Maeve's' nest box. This one was definitely not down to my ASBO chicken. Today, I have found another egg matching the description of the first.
Now, I'm fairly certain that this small, shiny egg layer is not one of my 'regulars'. My money is on the demented bog brush sisters, aka the silkies. So, I have diligently followed them around the garden, hand outstretched, in an effort to see if they crouch. They don't. They simply take off around the garden like road runner. Hmmmm.
The mystery deepens.....
Friday, 13 November 2009
Chickens Are Contagious
Well, a week on from Mini's trip to the vet, things seem to be improving. Her eye is still not right, but is an awful lot better than it was. She finished the Baytril course on Wednesday, and as she wasn't completely better I have put her on yet another Tylan course. She pootles about the garden with the others, making her distinctive 'meh-meh' sound and scoffing random bits of greenery, so I'm cautiously hopeful.
Sadly, it appears that Maeve has moved ahead of her in the pecking order, and there has been a fair bit of chasing. My lovely little Mini seems to be a born victim. Maeve charges at her, then stops short as Mini waddles away into the shrubbery. I knew that Maeve would shake up the pecking order, and I shouldn't be surprised that she's started at the bottom, but I still feel sad that Mini is getting harassed by the youngster. I'm a little embarrassed for her. However, she is eating, drinking her medicine and sleeping with the others, so no major problems.
A friend of mine, who has listened to my tales of chicken woe with a sympathetic ear, has just announced that she's expecting a quartet of hens. The coop has arrived, and now she just has to decide on which hens to keep. I feel strangely jubilant that someone else is going to know what I'm talking about when I mention bokking, crouching and chickenny vandalism.
I'm debating whether to warn her about her beautiful geraniums.
Sadly, it appears that Maeve has moved ahead of her in the pecking order, and there has been a fair bit of chasing. My lovely little Mini seems to be a born victim. Maeve charges at her, then stops short as Mini waddles away into the shrubbery. I knew that Maeve would shake up the pecking order, and I shouldn't be surprised that she's started at the bottom, but I still feel sad that Mini is getting harassed by the youngster. I'm a little embarrassed for her. However, she is eating, drinking her medicine and sleeping with the others, so no major problems.
A friend of mine, who has listened to my tales of chicken woe with a sympathetic ear, has just announced that she's expecting a quartet of hens. The coop has arrived, and now she just has to decide on which hens to keep. I feel strangely jubilant that someone else is going to know what I'm talking about when I mention bokking, crouching and chickenny vandalism.
I'm debating whether to warn her about her beautiful geraniums.
Monday, 9 November 2009
The Problem With Mini
Mini is sick again. Just over a week ago, I noticed her wheezing. This was dreadful timing, as we were going away for a long weekend the following day. I dosed the water with Tylan, informed my chook sitter and reluctantly left her and hoped for the best.
When we returned, I was delighted to hear that her chest had cleared up, and she was back to making her 'brum' noises. One of her eyes looked a little gunky, but I assumed it would clear up in the next day or two. It didn't.
Over the next 48 hours, Mini's eye became increasingly swollen. On examination, it appeared that her inner eyelid was very swollen and inflamed. So, off to the vet we went. Again.
The vet ummed and aahed, and confessed to not knowing much about chickens (does anyone?!). I held Mini firmly while the vet had a good look at the swelling. With barely a hesitation, she grabbed what I thought was a part of Mini's eye and pulled. I learned that hens can scream. It turns out that what I had assumed was a physical part of Mini was in fact solidified pus. Lovely. The eye swelling was instantly gone, and she peered at me with a blood shot and sore looking eye. The vet duly prescribed Baytril, and off we toddled.
All was going well, and I thought we might be in the clear. Until yesterday. Until Maeve.
Maeve detected a weakness in her flock mate, and took advantage. She set about Mini with a viciousness which was truly depressing. Both of Mini's eyes were targeted, and she has cuts on both eyelids. I brought the hen inside to bathe her wounds, and at that point discovered two small critters on Mini's neck. Lice, I presume. Great.
Taking my mite spray, I methodically sprayed each complaining hen. Maeve was banished to solitary, and can still be seen pacing in the greenhouse. I cleaned out the coop, smothering every surface with mite powder. I dressed the feed with poultry spice, and also added ACV to the water. Every little helps, to plagiarise a well known supermarket.
The other hens are ignoring Mini, which is quite normal. Last night, when I went out to give Mini her evening dose of medicine, her eye was gummed shut. I unstuck it, and she peered blearily at me. It was the same this morning. She is currently sat huddled in the border.
Time will tell.
When we returned, I was delighted to hear that her chest had cleared up, and she was back to making her 'brum' noises. One of her eyes looked a little gunky, but I assumed it would clear up in the next day or two. It didn't.
Over the next 48 hours, Mini's eye became increasingly swollen. On examination, it appeared that her inner eyelid was very swollen and inflamed. So, off to the vet we went. Again.
The vet ummed and aahed, and confessed to not knowing much about chickens (does anyone?!). I held Mini firmly while the vet had a good look at the swelling. With barely a hesitation, she grabbed what I thought was a part of Mini's eye and pulled. I learned that hens can scream. It turns out that what I had assumed was a physical part of Mini was in fact solidified pus. Lovely. The eye swelling was instantly gone, and she peered at me with a blood shot and sore looking eye. The vet duly prescribed Baytril, and off we toddled.
All was going well, and I thought we might be in the clear. Until yesterday. Until Maeve.
Maeve detected a weakness in her flock mate, and took advantage. She set about Mini with a viciousness which was truly depressing. Both of Mini's eyes were targeted, and she has cuts on both eyelids. I brought the hen inside to bathe her wounds, and at that point discovered two small critters on Mini's neck. Lice, I presume. Great.
Taking my mite spray, I methodically sprayed each complaining hen. Maeve was banished to solitary, and can still be seen pacing in the greenhouse. I cleaned out the coop, smothering every surface with mite powder. I dressed the feed with poultry spice, and also added ACV to the water. Every little helps, to plagiarise a well known supermarket.
The other hens are ignoring Mini, which is quite normal. Last night, when I went out to give Mini her evening dose of medicine, her eye was gummed shut. I unstuck it, and she peered blearily at me. It was the same this morning. She is currently sat huddled in the border.
Time will tell.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Complicated Chickens
Maeve, the new chick on the blockWell, best laid plans and all that...
My idea had been to integrate Mini with the new teeny Maeve, and once they were firm pals to reintroduce the pair to the flock. Easy. Except Mini has some kind of respitory infection. She's wheezing a bit, snotty and has a slightly swollen face. When she sneezes, mucus flies. Oh crap. Just as I noticed this new development, Mabel wandered over, bokked a bit, and then sneezed wetly up my arm. Double crap.
To be honest, at this point I may have thrown a little tantrum. After the nightmare of Delilah's illness and subsequent death, I really thought I was owed a good run of chicken health. Ha! The chicken God apparently has a wicked sense of humour. So, monday morning saw me high tailing it to the vet and picking up some baytril.
Baytril is a broad spectrum antibiotic, which in this case comes as a syrup. Cue me trying to hold a chicken in a headlock while firing medicine down her throat. Cue Mini making an alarming amount of noise of the 'I can't breathe! I'm dying!' kind, and turning an unpleasant shade of purple. In a human you'd have called it an asthma attack. I popped her back into the coop, sadly expecting her to cark it from stress. Five minutes later, she trotted down the ramp and wandered off to eat aphids. I actually let out an audible sigh of relief.
We went through the whole rigmarole again yesterday, before my brain engaged this morning and I squirted the baytril onto a piece of bread. Mini scoffed it with enthusiasm, and no near death episode. Good. I am currently awaiting the delivery of a set of digital mini scales, so that I can measure out the Tylan I need to treat the whole flock. Hopefully, this will kill all bacteria and the birds will be healthy again. Until the next time...
Maeve has been cheerfully destroying the greenhouse, managing to tear up everything in the growbag and then crap on it. She has been out for the odd wander around the garden, and rightly keeps out of the other ladies way. She has a big charcter for such a little bird. When she is grown, I think she's really going to shake up the pecking order....
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