So. The ice-pack trick had no effect on Phoebe's perpetual broodiness. I planted a glacier of ice packs in the nest box and she found her way around it, squeezing onto a tiny bit of bedding that remained in the corner. So I rearranged the ice packs and then she scratched and tore them and the ice melted and dripped out and that was fine with Phoebe, who sat blissfully upon the whole soggy mess.
So I moved on to Plan B: The Broody Pen.
As it was suggested by several chicken-friends, I fashioned a little pen for Phoebe just outside the run. She had water, food and safety, but she had no nest box to sit in. This appeared to be a comfortable setup, but for Phoebe it was a heinous torture chamber. She paced and fluffed and ranted and panicked. In response to her distress, all of the ladies stood beside her at the edge of the run, and there they remained, compassionately close to the little jailbird. Because a flock is a flock, even if one member is doing hard time. At night, I placed her back into the nest box, under house arrest until morning when I took her right back to the correctional facility. It took only three days to rehabilitate this little gal from
On that third day, she stepped out of the nest box, stood up straight, and returned to her esteemed position at the very bottom of the pecking order. When I opened the gate that morning, Phoebe accepted a peck on the head from each of her friends, and then tore out across the yard to trash my garden with her team.
Little Phoebe is wasting her entire summer hiding in the nest box all puffed up and insanely broody. She has barely seen the light of day since late May. Her beady eyes are getting beadier, and every day she looks less like a respectable Speckled Sussex and more like a cupcake.
It's time for an intervention. So last night I froze several gallon-zipper-bags full of water, and right now I'm heading to the coop to implement this diabolical plan.
Come out and seize the day, my little lunatic chicken!
I didn’t think about Dorrie’s wandering because the ladies
do like to scratch in those leaves at the shady edge of the yard.
But a few hours later, back at the coop, I found Dorrie
standing hunched in the corner.She was barely awake, and she was drooling.
was especially odd.
It didn’t take long for me to guess what was wrong.
My wild foxgloves were in glorious bloom.
Dorrie must have eaten some of this highly toxic plant.
I left her in the care of her flock while I went to do a bit
of quick research.Back in the
kitchen I Googled madly. I
found some good info.
interesting that the human symptoms of foxglove poisoning matched Dorrie’s
symptoms.Perhaps the treatment
would be the same as well?
contacted some Facebook chicken-fanatic friends for advice.
Activated Charcoal was the consensus -- the same treatment as
for humans.Of course I didn’t
have any activated charcoal lying around. I didn’t even know what it was, and
by that time it was way too late at night to hop into the car and go hunting
In desperation I brought Dorrie into the house and fed her a
watery swill of ground-up charcoal from my fireplace.I had no problem getting it down her throat as she was
I put her to bed in the kitchen and hoped for the best.
The next morning Dorrie was no better. The plain charcoal had had no effect. I needed to find activated charcoal,
My dear friend Beth, who normally sleeps in on Saturdays, actually answered her phone when I called at 7am,
god-bless-her.And, yes, as
a matter of fact, she did have a packet of activated charcoal.
I fetched the precious remedy from Beth, brought it back and mixed up the potion.
I squeezed about three tablespoons of the stuff into Dorrie.
That seemed like a good amount to me.
We took a quick little selfie together,
and then I returned her to the coop.
The flock gathered around Dorrie where she stood hunched, drowsy and drooling.
Now all we could do was wait.
But we didn’t wait long!
In only three hours, Dorrie was honest-to-goodness back from the dead, flitting around with the flock like nothing had ever happened!
Don’t you just love a miraculously happy ending?
I let the girls out for some celebratory free-ranging.
This time, we stayed on the right side of the yard.Plenty of weeds, none of them
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And now I’m at the kitchen table eyeing this precious little
packet of activated charcoal, this magical elixir…
At the age of six months, she was stricken with Marek's disease. She survived, but her legs and her stamina were permanently affected. Lucy needed me, so she invited me into her life.
For six and a half years Lucy and I shared a beautiful trusting friendship. She taught me what it's like to be a chicken. And she taught me what it means to be alive.
This October Lucy fell ill. I recognized her symptoms at once, and made a confident decision on her behalf. I called Rosario, the wonderful vet who I wrote about in my book, and she met Sarah and me in our backyard the next day. Together we gave Lucy a comfortable ending while I held this beautiful hen my arms.
It has been an honor to share Lucy with the world. I continue to be amazed at the way she touches people's lives in my book, Once Upon a Flock, in my blog stories, and on Facebook.
Lucy's flock mourned her passing. And now her flock guides me in moving forward. Because the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful day.
If you, too, aspire to attain the wisdom of a chicken, here are a few pointers:
Thank you for following my stories, and stay tuned for more tales of a soulful flock!
While I dilly-dallied in my garden yesterday, mesmerized by a clean arc of sparkling water flowing from the hose nozzle, I was startled by a very small hummingbird who darted around my head and then hovered above the stream of water.
I held completely still, hoping that it would stay for a moment.
It was exquisite, and especially tiny, even for a hummingbird. When I spied three shimmering red feathers on its chin, I knew it was a young male Ruby Throated.
I guessed he had come to take a sip, so I held the stream steady while he whizzed around it.
He examined the water from all angles, but he didn't touch it with his beak.
Instead, he extended his tiny talons and carefully lowered himself onto this beautiful shiny perch.
For a moment, even I believed it might work.
He raised himself above the flow and tried from another angle.
His toes were so small there was hardly a splash.
He made a few more attempts to stand on water,
and then he retreated to a more substantial perch in the forsythia bush.
The young Nuggets were terrified of Daisy. Her attacks were incessant.
So in the interest of peace and safety, I decided to split the flock. Thank goodness I've built so many coops. The four youngsters and Lucy continued to abide in the big coop,
and I moved Daisy into the jailhouse where wicked Lil'White is serving her life term. To make Daisy's transition more comfortable, I dragged her favorite little henhouse into the jail yard.
When I built this house a few years ago, all the ladies were amused by it.
Lucy checked it out first, then settled on the front porch.
But Daisy decided instantly that this would be her own personal nest box.
She marched right in and laid an egg.
Daisy settled comfortably into jailhouse life, and continues to lay eggs in her white henhouse. She and Lil'White get along just fine because they're both self-absorbed and aloof. They kind of enjoy having their very own prison.
Recently I discovered another resident in the Chicken Jail.
I discovered it when I opened the back door to Daisy's white house to collect her egg, and nearly grabbed this:
Definitely not an egg.
It was a toad.
sitting calmly beneath a Daisy-feather.
I quickly shut the door.
I didn't know what to do.
If I left the toad, then Daisy would soon walk in and find it.
I've seen Daisy kill frogs and shrews.
I love toads.
Should I rescue it?
Or should I let nature take its course?
I walked away...
Later in the evening, I went back out to collect Daisy's egg.
Expecting to find carnage and toad-chunks, I opened the door ever-so-carefully....
And there it was, Broody Toad, beside an egg.
Daisy had stepped ever-so-carefully past the toad and laid that egg, then stepped out again.
Why didn't she touch it?
It's not because she likes the toad. It's because she's smart.
She knows that toads have a secret power.
Marky knows the secret of the toad.
He learned the hard way. He licked one.
His mouth fizzed up like he'd eaten a bar of Ivory soap.
So apparently chickens know, too. But I'm not sure how.
Last summer, when the Nuggets were mere youngsters, they met their first toad in the garden.
They all shrieked and stared.
I rushed over to see what the hysteria was all about, and found this tiny creature
standing on its tippy toes, trying to look fearsome.
Apparently it succeeded. The ladies didn't touch it.
It's been more than a month now that Broody Toad has been rooming with Daisy. And Daisy is careful and respectful of it still.
A few weeks back, I went over to my friend Terry Golson's house for a visit, and to congratulate her on the publication of The Farmstead Egg Guide & Cookbook. I love to hang out at Terry's house. Her kitchen always smells of fresh baked treats, and she makes a great cup of coffee.
Marky loves to visit, too, but Terry's dog Lily stresses him out a bit.
Because Lily adores Marky.
On this visit, Lily adored him even more than usual.
You know how girls can be a little scary sometimes.
Marky attempted a few subtle cues, but nothing he did could change the way she feels about him.
Lily was happy to gaze at Marky from either end.
After coffee, we went out back to see Terry's critters.
Marky seemed relieved to have a little distance between himself and Lily,
But soon she found him.
Pip and Caper lured Terry into their yard and put her to work
scratching butts and giving kisses.
I, of course, made a beeline for the henhouse,
to visit with Terry's lovely ladies.
Marky's nose caught the scent of Phoebe,
the long-eared member of Terry's flock.
He set off on a bunny hunt.
And Lily set off on a Marky-hunt.
Find Marky in this picture. (click to enlarge) By the end of our visit, Marky seemed to be coming to terms with Lily's passionate attention.
Because love really isn't the worst thing that can happen. . . . . . . . . . . . Win Terry's Book! This post is part of Terry's official Blog Tour to celebrate the publication of The Farmstead Egg Guide and Cookbook! Please leave a comment below (with your email address) in order to win, then head over to Terry's blog at Hencam.com to find out more about Terry and her animals, and for a list of awesome blogs on the tour!