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.

Six Hundred And Fifty Two Is The Magic Number

It's a rather marvellous number, isn't it? Suitably impressive without being grandiose. I am a very proud chook keeper. You see, it is the total number of eggs my ladies laid in 2009.

Yes, I am that tragic. I sat down with my calculator, and added up every egg tally. That's one hundred and eight half dozen boxes. Brilliant. The ever tolerant husbanad was less impressed. As I attempted to defend my ladies by reminding him that the eggs we sold had paid for their feed and bedding throughout the summer, therefore making them partially self sufficient, he reminded me that Mini's vets bill's alone added up to more than any revenue made on the eggs. Ah.

Still, as I watch my cyclops chicken wander about the run with her head cocked at an odd angle, muttering 'meh-meh!' at no one in particular, I can't help but think that she's worth it. I am also reminded that some of those eggs were provided by flock members no longer with us, and Delilah and Belinda did their part. I hope that they are busy scoffing corn in the great chicken run in the sky.

This year, I predict that my egg total will top seven hundred.

Because I will probably aquire a few more hens....

You Always Pick On The White Chicken

I have been eyeing Mini for a few days. It's perfectly possible that all my girls are a bit grubby, but Mini looked shocking. Her feet were a dirty grey, and her knickers were disgusting. At this time of year, fly strike is a real possibility, so there was nothing for it. Mini had to have a bath.

Mini has been bathed before, and I've also bathed Delilah (RIP), so at least I'm not a complete novice. The ever tolerant husband has made me promise, however, that all future bathings take place in a bucket in the garden, and not the family bath, so this was going to be a new experience for us both.

I nonchalantly wandered over to the garage to fetch a bucket. The girls all stopped what they were doing to watch me. The corn is kept in the garage, and they are forever optimistic. It took a while to locate said bucket, and when I emerged from the garage I found the entire flock sat patiently by the back door. Now, usually when I appear with something in my hand that isn't corn, they mutter to themselves and walk off in a crestfallen manner. Today, though, I had a bucket. And a bucket might contain all number of tasty things. An excited chattering and jostling commenced.

Gingerly, I stepped between the girls, shooing all the way. Not to be deterred from the possibility of food, they ignored me and did their best to trip me up. Tame chickens can be a hindrance as well as a blessing. Eventually, the seven of us shuffled across the decking to the back door, and I made my escape into the house. As the bucket filled with warm water and a generous squirt of washing up liquid, I lobbed a slice of bread out of the window for them to scoff. Much contented bokking.

Now, the tricky bit. I carried the half filled bucket outside, and tried to look innocent. The hens were having none of it. A concerned chuntering began, and they slowly began to congregate at the furthest point of the garden away from me. Trying to pretend I was just going for a stroll, I walked slowly down the garden towards them, not making eye contact. Now they knew something was up. Mabel eyeballed me with suspicion, and then legged it as fast as she could into the convent. The others all followed her lead. As Mini thundered past me, I swooped down and picked her up.

She let out a startled 'mer MUH!' (her 'Brum' sound effect) and then just relaxed, resigned to her fate. I scratched her head, and talked in a soothing voice as we approached the bucket. Mini looked at the bucket, looked at me and bokked hopefully. I felt rotten.

Then I dunked her. She squawked a bit, and then just seemed to lose the will to complain. I suspect that being bottom hen is a hard cross to bear for poor Min, and nothing awful that happens to her is much of a surprise any more. I lathered her up, and then realised my problem. When I've bathed a chicken in the bathroom, I've used the shower to rinse them off. Oh dear.

I released Mini on to the decking. She stood there, covered in bubbles, and with her usually fluffy feathers slicked to her tiny frame, while I emptied the bucket and went inside to refill it with rinse water. Seeing her opportunity, the little bedraggled hen hot footed it down the garden.

And what a pathetic sight it was. Pekins usually look as though their feet have been stuck to their round bodies. You'd be forgiven for thinking that they didn't have legs at all. Now that all the fluff and feather was slicked down with fairy liquid, the scary truth was revealed. Mini resembled a hairy dinosaur, with long stilt-like legs. Eugh.

I took off in pursuit, and spent several frustrating minutes chasing her around the shrubbery. Finally caught, she was unceremoniously dunked back into the bucket and rinsed. The other hens kept their distance, obviously assuming that Min was merely my first victim.

Wrapping Min in an old towel, I brought her inside to watch 'Loose Women' while I blow dried her feathers. She loved being returned to her clean, fluffy self. She particularly enjoyed the custard cream.

Just don't tell the husband.

Complicated Chickens

Maeve, the new chick on the block

Well, 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....

Replacing Delilah

Even though the remaining hens are all getting on, and Mini hasn't been shunned, I'm still thinking of getting another hen. I never thought I would miss Ms. Stroppyknickers, but I do. RIP Delilah, you were a cow, but you laid beautiful, tasty eggs. The flock isn't the same without your shrill shrieking and bad tempered clucking.

So, now the exciting bit. A new hen! Ooh, the possibilities! I could get a blue egg layer! Or a chocolate brown egg layer! Or a miniature Brahma, those chooks that look like they're walking upright with feathery trousers on. Ooh, or a blue laced wyandotte, with the gorgeous plumage. There are so many bantam/miniature hens available, but ultimately, my heart belongs to the pekin.

What isn't to love about pekins? They are fluffy, and cute looking. They run with a comedy waddle, head down and bum up. They are easily tamed, and curious. They even lay lovely eggs, with hardly any white. Perfect.

Now, Mabel, Maude, Doris, Belinda and Mini are all smooth featherd pekins. But there is an alternative. The frizzle.

Frizzles are a breed in their own right. They are characterised by their feathers, which curl backwards instead of laying flat. The effect is rather like a bad hair day, or an unfortunate accident with the mains. Many other breeds have had this charcteristic bred into them, including pekins. So that's what I want. A chicken that looks like it's been electrocuted. The search begins.

A Sad Day

I took Delilah to the vets this morning to be put to sleep. She was making no real improvement, just getting thinner and more miserable looking. This morning she wouldn't even eat her weetabix, just sat gasping for air. I knew then that my nursing was keeping her alive, but not making her better. Poor D had given up.

I phoned my friend, who was an absolute star. She took the boys to school, and then came and fetched me and Delilah. She even came in to the examination room with this hysterical, crying, snot flinging woman. Thanks , Denise, you're a star x

The vet gave her the once over, and agreed that enough was enough. I left her in his capable hands, after scratching her head one last time. He didn't even charge me, I was that upset and pathetic.

I wish that this story had a happier ending.

Mini wants a cracker

Delilah seems slightly improved this evening, managing to eat a few beakfuls of weetabix from a spoon and flexing her left leg a bit. She's also been preening a little. This sudden worry over her feathers has made me relax a little bit. Surely a hen at deaths door wouldn't concern herself with feather shininess?

In between hen intensive care, I pottered about in the garden today. Poor little Mini followed me about like a puppy. She's not sure what to do without Delilah. Feeling sorry for her, I kept sneaking her treats. This led to her deciding I was her very best friend, and when I bent down to fill the watering can she decided to move our relationship up a level.

I managed to water the greenhouse with a small chicken on my shoulder, but it wasn't easy. She happily chattered in my ear and occasionally peered around to stare me in the face (quite unnerving). In order to stay perched, she dug her talons into my jumper and at least the top layer of my skin. Ow. More disturbingly, she decided to turn around. I then found myself cheek to chicken arse. Not particularly fragrant.

In order to get her down, I had to bend low to the ground so that she could sort of abseil down my back. She promptly ran around to the front and pecked my hand to check for treats. Finding nothing, and deciding that my usefulness was therefore all used up, she waddled off to eat a snail.

Got to love hens.

Playing vet

Quite frankly, I've had enough of waiting for Delilah to either get better or drop off the perch, so I've decided to take matters into my own hands. The poorly chook has been put in a cardboard box and moved to the living room. I have made up a sloppy oat porridge, and am determinedly shoving it down her throat at regular intervals. This is no easy task, as she clamps her beak together and glares a me in a 'don't even think about it, mate' manner. There then follows a bizarre struggle, as I try to hold on to the hens head, prize open her beak and poor porridge down her neck. This is a task which easily requires three hands, but I'm managing it. Poor Delilah does end up covered in globs of breakfast cereal, though. She really hates me now.

Quick Update

With a heavy heart, I took Delilah to the vet this afternoon, fully expecting to come home minus one chook. She was flat out in the box, gasping for air and generally looking at deaths door. The vet picked her up, examined her and made lots of 'hmmm, this doesn't look good' type noises. At this point, my stiff upper lip crumbled, and I made a bit of a prat of myself, sobbing over a chicken.

To my shock, the vet seemed pleased by her condition. He said that despite her obvious illness, her temperature was up, and that was good. A high temperature indicates an immune system response to infection. Delilah was giving it some!!! Mr. Vet seems fairly certain that D has mycoplasma, an extremely common respitory illness in poultry. Apparently, myco can put a hen off her feet, as the joints are swollen and painful.

He promptly injected her with something I've forgotten the name of, told me to keep syringing water into her beak at regular intervals and to give her a course of Tylan, an antibiotic.

I can't even begin to explain how delighted I was to leave that examining room with one live hen. She's not out of the woods by a long shot, but there is hope. And while there's hope, there'll be a vaguely deranged woman in a dressing gown, syringing sugar water into a pissed off hen at 9pm.

Hanging in there

I fully expected to lose Delilah over night, but this morning I found her alert but sitting in the nest box. Her face is still far too pale, and she's still not able to move around properly. Good news is, it's not the dreaded Marek's disease, as she isn't paralysed at all, just very uncoordinated.

I opened the coop to examine her, and she made a determined effort to get out of the garage to freedom. I'm pleased by her spirit, but saddened to see her struggle to clear the step which Mini lightly leapt over. It took D a few attempts, and absolutely exhausted her. She stumbled off into the shrubbery, and lay there with her beak open trying to get her breath. The others came over to investigate, muttering chickenny greetings, before wandering off again to eat bugs.

Leaving her to lay in the sun for a few minutes, I came inside to prepare chicken comfort food. Chickens adore porridge, mixed with water, raisins and a bit of poultry spice. When I carried this concoction to the garage, I was mobbed by a flock of greedy birds. When they saw me put said treat in the hospital wing, they stalked off muttering chicken obscenities. I collected D from the shrubbery, and put her near the porridge. With great effort, she turned her back on it and dragged herself back into the coop. Now, she's either extremely unwell, or this is D's spirit shining through. It would be just like her to tell you to naff off, even when you've gone to lots of effort.

The down side

Delilah, on the right.

There is a downside to hen keeping, and I've been reminded of it today. Chickens are such funny little characters, that you find yourself getting attatched to them almost without realising it. So when one of them gets ill, it's very upsetting.

Delilah is a very sick hen. She doesn't seem able to move very well, staggering like a drunk and using her wings to steady herself. Her face and comb are pale, and she's spent a lot of the day huddled in the run. We've been to the vets, and she's been given antibiotic and steroid injections. A temporary hospital wing has been set up in the garage with lots of deep warm bedding, food and water. Her best chicken pal, Mini, is with her. There is nothing more to be done, but wait and see if she is alive in the morning.

I feel bad for calling her a cow now.

Egg Tally

When Delilah started laying, I thought it would be, er, fun to keep a record of who lay what, when. Sad, I know. Anyway, the ever tolerant hubby dutifully organised a spreadsheet for me, which I have been filling in for three months. Ahem.

This worked fine when I just had three hens laying, as I could generally work out who had laid which egg. Now there are five laying though, I haven't a hope in hell. So, I have taken to guessing.

Basically this means that I am entering false data onto a totally unnecessary spreadsheet. A completely pointless task. I should really stop.

Chicken keeping can have a negative effect on your mental health.