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.

The Rain It Raineth Every Day

We are in soggy, damp winter hell. In between bouts of rain, the fog descends just to ensure that everything stays dank and miserable. Several times on the way out to deal with the birds I have gone skidding across the patio on the slipperiest substance known to man: soggy chicken excrement. Lovely. I am beginning to think that the placement of these mini turds is deliberate. Maeve can often be seen loitering around the back step looking suspicious.

Poor ASBO Chicken is still in moult and it is beginning to get her down. Even her favourite pastimes of chasing underlings and ambushing superiors have lost their appeal. So desperately itchy is she that she will tolerate me rubbing her quill-spiky neck without attempting a fingerectomy. Her foot feathers have grown in beautifully, but the head, neck and hackle feathers are taking their time. Hopefully she will be back to her evilly gorgeous, bouffanted, black self by Christmas.

Celia is on day three of lock out. She seems to be coming around and taking more notice of the others, so my hopes are high that this approach will work. The dodgy-eyed Doris seems much better at this point and I am hoping that my trips to the vet are now over for this year. I think every keeper has a run of bad health in the flock, but after last years months of misery I rather feel that I've earned a few hassle free seasons. Of course, even typing this is tempting fate so I'm both touching wood and crossing fingers.

The Palace will soon have a bespoke sign courtesy of a very talented Twitter pal. Once it arrives and is in place expect a photo. It is everything I had hoped for and more, and even has the mighty Mille's featured. You will be impressed, I guarantee it.

Now I just have to source the perfect solar fairy lights and some bunting.

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.

Emergency ASBO

Maeve decided to throw me a curve ball today. While I stood at the sink, refilling the drinker, I noticed that Maeve had something stuck to her face. A white something. A white something that made her look like the 'Phantom of the Opera'. Odd. I went outside to investigate.

As I got closer, I decided that she must have walked in to some cuckoo spit. It was exactly the same texture and consistency. Moving my hand to wipe it away, Maeve yawned expansively and coughed up more of the weird white stuff. That's not good. I have never seen a hen vomit, in fact I wasn't sure that they could, but Maeve was having a damn good go.

Grabbing the small black chook, I peered down her throat. Her throat muscles were in constant motion, and her crop felt hard. My first thought was poisoning. I frantically tried to think if there was any way that she could have got a hold of any slug pellets/rose fertiliser/garden lime. I grabbed her by the legs, and held her upside down. I have never done this in two years of chicken keeping, but vaguely remembered reading it was a fast way to clear the crop. I massaged the lump in her crop, stroking it down towards her beak. More mucus was gradually expelled, getting thicker. Every few minutes, I righted her and gave her time to calm down. This wasn't pleasant for either of us. Suddenly, there was some long pieces of grass all wrapped around each other and some mashed up pellets at the back of her throat. I gently reached in and pulled it free.

All the while I was doing this, I was watching Maeve carefully. Her face got darker at this point, and I quickly righted her and soothed her panic. Deciding that enough was enough, I took her straight to the vet.

The vet concluded that her crop was only about a quarter full, and with luck the remaining blockage would pass on its own. He wanted to keep her in over night for observation, but I opted to bring her home. A vet's holding room, full of cats and dogs, is not exactly a stress free environment for a prey animal. At home, she should be less stressed and recover more quickly. He also wanted to give her antibiotics because of the mucus, but as she's just finished a course of Tylan along with the other girls, I declined.

The rest of the flock have been banished from the Palace until bedtime, and Maeve is pacing the run with only the drinker and grit for company. She is alert and active, which is a good sign, and even growled at me when I went out to check on her just now. That's my girl.

However, the vet has planted a seed of worry in my brain. He mentioned the fact that the lump in her crop might be a physical issue, such as a tumour. He seemed quite keen on whipping his scalpel out to investigate. After losing Mini to anaesthetic, I am extremely reluctant to put any of my girls through such an invasive procedure.

So now I'm hoping that this is a fluke event, never to be repeated, and not the beginning of a severe problem.

(By the way, I have since been informed that hanging a bird upside down to clear the crop is not a good idea. Far better to hold the bird upright and stroke the crop upwards. The method I used makes it more likely that the bird will choke. I am lucky I didn't kill her)

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.

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.

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.