vituperation

Our chicken Charlie is kind of a sad sack. She hatched with toes that bend to the side —

— instead of to the front. Because her toes are like that, she can’t roost like other chickens. She sleeps in a nest box every night. She has trouble getting up and down the ramp to the coop, because she can’t get any good traction. She gets sexed up more than most of the other hens because she can’t run fast (she more hobbles than anything,, flapping her wings for balance), and she’s often dirty from being forced down into the mud for a quickie.

Despite all this, she seems happy enough. Not that I can tell when a chicken is happy, but she’s always right in the middle of things, angling for scratch and feed. She’s a scrappy little thing.

Saturday morning, I happened to glance out the window in time to see a kerfuffle out in the middle of the back forty. Two roosters were both trying to mate with Charlie, and a fight broke out. The dogs came over to see what was going on, and the chickens scattered.

Except for Charlie, who lay unmoving on the ground.

“Oh no,” I said to Robyn. “I think they’ve killed Charlie.”

I started to pull on my boots.

“Wait!” Robyn said. “She’s up!”

Sure enough, she was. She hobbled slowly back towards the coop, unable to see the problem brewing behind her.

George was staring at her, and his ears were up.

I ran out the door onto the stoop in time to see George and Gracie both chasing Charlie across the field. I screamed at them, but they ignored me. In a second, they were out of sight behind the coop.

By the time I got to the chicken yard, the dogs were at the gate ready to see me, all jumpy and excited. This was the first time they’d tried to play with a chicken in probably six weeks, so I couldn’t be too mad at them. I did, however, plug in the shock collar when I got back inside. If they’re about to go through a chasing stage, I want it nipped quickly.

Later in the day when I was out checking for eggs, Charlie hobbled out from under the coop, a black hen right next to her. The black hen pecked Charlie on the head, and I noticed she was bleeding around her comb from the pecking. I shooed away the black hen, and put Charlie in a nest box so I could go get Robyn and the Blu-kote.

Chickens are drawn to the red of blood, and will keep pecking at any sort of wound. The Blu-kote not only disenfects wounds, it changes their color so they’re no longer attractive to chickens. While I held Charlie, Robyn painted liberally around her head:

Afterwards, Charlie went back into the nest box and we went about our day.

Yesterday morning when I was checking for eggs, I discovered Charlie was still in the same nest box. It dawned on me that I’d put her in the upper level, and that she might be scared (or physically unable) to get down, so I put her into one of the lower ones. She immediately went out the front of the box, and I felt bad for my lapse in thinking.

Checking for eggs later in the afternoon, I found Charlie back in one of the lower nest boxes. I took her out to examine her head, and discovered she had an issue with one wing. She didn’t seem to be able to use it well. It sagged, and while she could pull it back up against her body, she wasn’t able to flap it. The whole time I held her, the wing trembled, and I’m afraid it was from extreme pain.

I didn’t know if the roosters did it during the rape-off, or if maybe George got a paw on her when he was chasing her, but I realized it was time for a tough decision. I put Charlie back into the nest box and closed the coop.

“I think maybe we need to put Charlie down,” I told Robyn in the house, and explained the situation.

After a lot of agonizing over whether to try and let her heal or just eat her, we made our decision, and I was halfway to the coop with my throat-slitting knife in hand when an old memory stirred. I made a detour to the garage and checked the bottle of Blu-kote.

NOT TO BE USED ON ANIMALS INTENDED FOR FOOD, it said.

That settled that, so I took Charlie and put her in the little coop with the chicks. As soon as I set her down, she hobbled over to the water and started drinking. She was still drinking 15 minutes later when I left, and 10 minutes even later when I came back. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, any time I looked in, she was either eating or drinking.

At one point, one of the older chicks came over while she was drinking, and did an exploratory peck at her wattle. Charlie pecked back, and the chick squawked and ran away. I was pleased. This morning when I went to the coop to check, Charlie was spread out under the heat lamp, happy as a pig in shit.

It’s nice seeing her in a place where she’s at the top of the pecking order for once.

I don’t know how she’ll end up, but for now she lives.

The half-Polish chicks continue to look cool with their mohawks.

Chicks wondering about that big white hen with the purple head.

The white silkie is the latest in a long line of hens to go broody. I’ve always heard that silkies make good mothers, so I moved her to the smaller coop (I don’t trust George and Gracie around babies yet) and stuck four eggs under her. I guess we’ll see what happens.

Speaking of broody hens, it’s that time of year. I’ve been sticking the broody ones in a Havahart trap kept off the ground for a couple of days when they go broody. Because they can’t get any warmth underneath them, they eventually snap out of it and go back to normal. The trap is a pain in the ass, though, because the front end is spring-loaded, and trying to wrestle it open while holding an indignant squawking hen is less than enjoyable.

So, yesterday I spent a couple of hours building the BroodyBuster^TM, which I mounted in one corner of the coop:

Broody hen is broody.

A young rooster from the November McMurray batch. He’s a giant.
I think he’s probably a slow-growing red broiler. I’d like to keep him around,
but I’m afraid he’ll start hurting the girls when he tries to mate.

Another roo from the same batch, possibly an Ameraucana.

You has food?

The doofuses, being doofus-y.

Rarely does one video contain so much win.