As a new chicken owner, I’ve learned over the past 11 months or so that the job is a bit more demanding than simply meandering through a sun-kissed yard on a lovely June morning to retrieve eggs from the coop.
"The girls” expect to be fed at dawn, for example. And I have to try to keep them cool in the summer and warm in the winter. I’ve grown accustomed to switching out their frozen water bowl on the coldest days in January, clearing poop from the coop every morning and occasionally replacing old bedding that has been trampled into microscopic bits. I even survived the unpleasant task of burying Stella, who died unexpectedly more than three months ago.
But none of that prepared me for Operation Nasty Nala, so named because Nala, our Barred Rock, had a bit of toilet trouble recently.
When I headed to the coop one morning to give Nala and Snow a treat, I noticed that Nala had a roughly oval-shaped substance about the size of a small egg hanging from her butt. A closer look revealed that (gross-out alert!) it was a ball of feces that somehow got stuck on her fanny feathers.
At first, I tried the easy way out, by letting things take their own course. Maybe Nala, who appeared unfazed, could solve this problem on her own, if given enough time. But that didn’t work, as I discovered a couple of hours later during a return visit to the coop.
So my wife Liz and I decided to take matters into our own hands - literally.
With Snow out in the pen and Nala locked into the small coop, I lifted the hinged roof so Liz could reach into the coop and grab Nala. This was not anywhere near as easy as it sounds. While Liz tried to coax and sweet talk Nala into cooperating, the frightened hen flapped her wings, hid in corners and ran around the coop until some mix of exhaustion, skill and luck allowed Liz to scoop her up and remove her.
As Liz held Nala (the key is to keep the wings pressed against the hen’s body), I squatted down for a closer look. I’ve read that it’s possible to bathe chickens when their health requires it, and plopping Nala’s butt into a pan of water would have made it easier to clean her. But I didn’t want to get even part of her soaking wet during a Maine winter. So I opted for Plan B, which required donning latex gloves and removing the clump.
Now, you might expect, as I did, that Nala would have protested this human meddling in her nether regions, by squawking and squalling and wiggling and fidgeting. In fact, there was none of that. She remained completely silent. (Which was amazing, considering how talkative chickens are.) And she was perfectly still as Liz cradled her in her arms, stroking her and talking to her while I . . . well, you already know what I was doing.
“She was at peace,” during the whole process, Liz said. “She was contented. I don’t think she made any noise at all.”
Hmm. Could this behavior have been an expression of . . . gratitude? From a chicken? Maybe hens have better manners than we give them credit for.
But none of that prepared me for Operation Nasty Nala, so named because Nala, our Barred Rock, had a bit of toilet trouble recently.
When I headed to the coop one morning to give Nala and Snow a treat, I noticed that Nala had a roughly oval-shaped substance about the size of a small egg hanging from her butt. A closer look revealed that (gross-out alert!) it was a ball of feces that somehow got stuck on her fanny feathers.
At first, I tried the easy way out, by letting things take their own course. Maybe Nala, who appeared unfazed, could solve this problem on her own, if given enough time. But that didn’t work, as I discovered a couple of hours later during a return visit to the coop.
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| Nala |
As Liz held Nala (the key is to keep the wings pressed against the hen’s body), I squatted down for a closer look. I’ve read that it’s possible to bathe chickens when their health requires it, and plopping Nala’s butt into a pan of water would have made it easier to clean her. But I didn’t want to get even part of her soaking wet during a Maine winter. So I opted for Plan B, which required donning latex gloves and removing the clump.
Now, you might expect, as I did, that Nala would have protested this human meddling in her nether regions, by squawking and squalling and wiggling and fidgeting. In fact, there was none of that. She remained completely silent. (Which was amazing, considering how talkative chickens are.) And she was perfectly still as Liz cradled her in her arms, stroking her and talking to her while I . . . well, you already know what I was doing.
“She was at peace,” during the whole process, Liz said. “She was contented. I don’t think she made any noise at all.”
Hmm. Could this behavior have been an expression of . . . gratitude? From a chicken? Maybe hens have better manners than we give them credit for.
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