DORRIE'S DEADLY DIVERSION

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.    

…..Drooling?  

This 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.  

It was interesting that the human symptoms of foxglove poisoning matched Dorrie’s symptoms.  Perhaps the treatment would be the same as well?   

I 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 for it.

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 virtually catatonic.   

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, quick.

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 poisonous.

 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

And now I’m at the kitchen table eyeing this precious little packet of activated charcoal, this magical elixir…

Maybe I’ll sprinkle some on my toast. 

I wonder how it would taste in my coffee…..

Flock of Four

"Don't cry because it's over. 

Smile because it happened."

-- Dr. Seuss

I buried Fern yesterday.

She died on Christmas. 
Probably not a significant day, to a chicken.
It just happened to be the right day for Fern to let go. 

Fern had courageously and hysterically battled illness since June. 
I helped her, perhaps more than I should have. 

But she just kept singing and being silly and, well, being Fern.
She wasn't ready to give up, so I didn't give up either.

I kept her going, hoping she would acquire more strength to fight.

After all, Lucy recovered. 

And she thrived. 

Lucy struggles still, but I make sure she is comfortable and happy, and I know that she is.

Fern helped me to understand that sometimes valiant efforts should not be taken to keep a beloved pet alive. 

For the past month, I have watched her condition deteriorate, ever so slowly. 

I knew she wouldn't make it through the winter.   

On Christmas morning Fern was sleepy, and she didn't sing to me when I lifted her from the nest box. When I offered her food and drink, she showed no interest.  

That afternoon when I visited the ladies,they were all hanging out with Fern.  

It felt to me like a vigil. 
It was not a sad moment. 
Just a quiet flock-moment.
Fern died a few hours later.  

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

She was a gorgeous bird.

She spent nearly three years as a chicken,
but she never did grow up.

Fern was a chickadee-chaser.


She challenged authority.

Fern tirelessly annoyed the whole flock, 

and she was number one on Lil'White's hit list.

Memories of Fern will always bring a chuckle, and I will smile because she "happened."

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

So another chapter has ended, and I am left with a flock of four. 

Now I look toward Spring.

Normally, I lustily peruse my flower and seed catalogs all through the winter. 

But this winter I'll be thumbing through chicken catalogs.

I'd like to increase my flock to seven or eight.

Maybe I'll get a Spitzhauben, a Wyandotte .... Definitely another Barred Rock....

Isn't it wonderful how life just keeps rolling along?  
I can't wait to meet my new characters! 

Microcosm

You know how it is. You leave town for a weekend and when you return,

a rogue seed has sprouted to produce a 20-foot gourd vine that engulfs a good chunk of the yard.

But this one looks great, so I tell people I planned it that way.

When a giant Queen Anne's Lace planted itself in my perennial bed a few years ago, I was elated. I've always loved the look of this weed, and it is a favorite food of the yellow swallowtail caterpillar. 

So I encouraged it. But there's a reason they call this plant a weed. The roots poison the soil, killing all the other plants around it.   It took me two years to eradicate it in the garden, but I did scatter its seeds at the edge of the yard where nothing much grows anyway.  

And it looks great in its new weed patch.

For years I've been planting milkweed seeds in my garden with no luck-- 

until this year.

Now I have a patch of fifteen or twenty healthy stalks. Their flowers are surprisingly fragrant, and they lured the monarch butterflies to my garden, which was my secret plan. 

When this one arrived, I watched her.

When  she left, I took a close look.

Her egg would take eight days to hatch. I worried that something that small would have little chance of surviving. After eight days I hunted for the hatchling with no luck.  Weeks passed without a sighting. 

And this week:

success! 

Other success stories on the milkweed:

This tussock caterpillar.

Just like some folks who eat their corn-on-the-cob in a spiral pattern instead of in a row, 

these caterpillars have their own styles. 

The tussock caterpillar starts at the stem and chews down one side of the leaf,

while the monarch prefers to take a big chunk out of each tip.

So the milkweed patch is looking rather mangled now, but it sure is supporting a lot of life.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Most of my ladies have been pretty laid back during this hot sultry summer. 

Lucy is satisfied to lie around and nibble the grass.

Daisy, however, is never satisfied. She's always hungry, and always hunting.

But I don't have to worry about her eating my milkweed caterpillars.

The hens turn their beaks up at anything with black and yellow stripes, and they certainly don't want a mouthful of tussock-hair. 

Daisy is hunting for something else.

See it?  

A toad. 

This has been a very toady year in my garden.

I love my toads.

I hate to watch Daisy hunt.

But gardens are all about life and death.

And adventure.

And naps. 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

For most of the summer, my Fern has been feeling a bit off.

She's a two-year-old Ameraucana. 

Back in June, she began to molt. 

Now, the end of August, Fern's still losing and growing feathers. Molts can take a lot out of a bird, and this is the longest molt I've ever seen.

Fern now weighs about as much as a sparrow. Her eyes are dull and she does everything in slow-motion. She spends a lot of time hiding.

She does like to hang out with Lucy who is compassionate and goes nowhere fast.

Pigeon often keeps watch over Fern as well. But Fern is still going downhill.

Chicken-friends and Facebook friends have offered lots of support and advice for my little Ameraucana. Terry Golson of Hencam.com suggested that the molt might be a symptom rather than a cause of whatever ails Fern.  

That's an interesting way of looking at it. 

I'm certainly learning a lot about chickens from friends and research. 

I'll do my best to make Fern well. 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

But.... gardens are all about life and death. 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

DAISY'S ASTOUNDING BRAIN

Honestly.

While the other gals are stampeding willy-nilly through that puddle,

Daisy stands transfixed at the water cascading over the edge. 

How many chickens do you know who carefully observe the hunting techniques of a robin? 

Okay, I'll just say it.  
I think I have a genius in the coop.

Over and over again, Daisy displays phenomenal mental capabilities.

Of course a chicken's brain, no matter how capable, is a little bit skewed in its design.

Daisy is easily distracted.  And she has a tendency to panic.  Comprehension is pretty weak, too.  
But doesn't that sound like the average report card these days anyway?


Minor disabilities are no obstacle for Daisy.  
She earnestly perseveres, committed to exploring the farthest reaches of her universe.

The kitchen, for example.

Daisy is obsessed with our living quarters.

While none of the other girls shows even the slightest curiosity about our human lives,

Daisy seizes every chance to stalk around the back deck peering into windows.

That day I left the sliding door open, Daisy cautiously advanced. This was her first opportunity to actually step inside, and she was giddy about it. She carefully absorbed every detail during those precious few moments.

Those precious few moments ended when Marky hopped up onto the deck---

but the excitement of her expedition left Daisy longing to return.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Daisy's next opportunity came just this week.

She had been laying eggs with no shells for several days, and I was pretty concerned. 
Daisy wasn't behaving like a sick chicken, but I knew something was wrong.

Then one night as I locked up the coop, I noticed that Daisy was missing.

I hunted around,

and found her asleep in the nestbox.

...not a good sign.

My hens always sleep on the roost. There's plenty of roosting space for them, so the nest boxes stay clean and are used only for egg-laying.

I had to pause and think for a moment about what to do.

I recalled what Terry Golson of Hencam.com once told me... (or did I just think she'd told me....?)

"when in doubt, give'em a bath".

...and if Terry didn't say this, she'd probably agree with me anyway.  
It's a pleasant experience for the chicken, and it's a good chance to do a little physical exam. So I took Daisy into the kitchen, filled a tub with warm water and plunked her in.

She had a whole mess of raw egg stuck to her feet and her belly -- so I was glad to get her all cleaned off. As I bathed her, I was able to examine her crop, gizzard, vent, toes.

All those little body parts seemed normal.

She thoroughly enjoyed her blow-dry,

she fluffed up the final feathers herself,

and then suddenly realized

that she was in the.... kitchen.
A sense of awe consumed her.

She became perky and happy, alert and investigative, which made me confident that whatever ailed her was not imminently fatal.

I let her explore briefly and then I scooped her up and ran her out to the coop before she could plop a heinous poo on the kitchen floor.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next day I began augmenting the ladies' chicken feed with extra calcium, and in a few days Daisy was laying eggs with shells again. I think that the abundant bugs and grubs and grass and clover of this lush season had somehow set her nutrient level out of whack.

Daisy continues to study her world-
I watched her warily approach a dead vole in the coop the other day.

When she snatched it up and gave it a good shake I guessed that it might have been she who was responsible for its condition.

So how can it be that this fearless, plucky, intellectually superior --- and did I mention beautiful--- chicken 

has landed at the rock-bottom of the pecking order? 

Stay tuned for the next post:    BULLYING