Snow,
our all-white Plymouth Rock, is the oldest hen in our tiny flock, and
the only surviving member of the trio we bought almost five years ago.
She’s also the flock’s “problem child,” the hen who has a penchant for
suffering mishaps that — so far, at least — Rhode Island Reds Nellie and
Hope have managed to avoid.
In no way does Snow resemble a cat, except that she too may have nine lives. Over the years, she has required human intervention (don’t ask) at least twice to help her lay eggs that were stuck. She has managed to cut off part of her comb. Last year, she even expelled tissue while laying an egg. (Liz had to push it back in before I took her to the vet, who prescribed temporary isolation, dark surroundings to discourage laying and periodic applications of Preparation H to her nether regions.)
Yesterday, on one of the coldest days of the year, when high winds combined with low temperatures to make for truly unpleasant conditions, Snow broke the nail on the rear toe of her right food. At mid-afternoon snack time, Liz found blood in the pen, dry blood smeared on Snow’s toes and tummy and blood dripping from what was left of the damaged toenail.
We keep cornstarch on hand to stanch the bleeding in such situations, but we don’t have a walk-in coop and it was too cold and windy outside to treat the toe there. So Liz hauled Snow off to the garage and handed her over to me. While I held Snow against my chest, Liz wiped off the bleeding stub and repeatedly applied cornstarch to it over the course of several minutes, until the bleeding finally stopped.
Healthy chickens may harass wounded flock mates, which is why we isolated Snow following some of her previous misadventures. But all of them occurred during the warmer months. We don’t have the best setup for isolating a chicken in the winter, so we reunited Snow with Nellie and Hope, repeated the cornstarch treatment a couple of hours later, and hoped for the best overnight.
Snow was a bit slow getting up at dawn today, but she dug into her breakfast when I released the hens into the pen at 6:30 a.m. There was no sign of any fresh blood in the coop or on the toe, and Nellie and Hope ignored her, which was for the best.
Sometimes, animals know when we are trying to help them. I think that was the case yesterday afternoon when I held Snowy while Liz ministered to her. Snow was bright-eyed and alert but completely tranquil. She clucked occasionally in a soft, seemingly contented voice. Perhaps it signaled gratitude.
In no way does Snow resemble a cat, except that she too may have nine lives. Over the years, she has required human intervention (don’t ask) at least twice to help her lay eggs that were stuck. She has managed to cut off part of her comb. Last year, she even expelled tissue while laying an egg. (Liz had to push it back in before I took her to the vet, who prescribed temporary isolation, dark surroundings to discourage laying and periodic applications of Preparation H to her nether regions.)
Yesterday, on one of the coldest days of the year, when high winds combined with low temperatures to make for truly unpleasant conditions, Snow broke the nail on the rear toe of her right food. At mid-afternoon snack time, Liz found blood in the pen, dry blood smeared on Snow’s toes and tummy and blood dripping from what was left of the damaged toenail.
We keep cornstarch on hand to stanch the bleeding in such situations, but we don’t have a walk-in coop and it was too cold and windy outside to treat the toe there. So Liz hauled Snow off to the garage and handed her over to me. While I held Snow against my chest, Liz wiped off the bleeding stub and repeatedly applied cornstarch to it over the course of several minutes, until the bleeding finally stopped.
Healthy chickens may harass wounded flock mates, which is why we isolated Snow following some of her previous misadventures. But all of them occurred during the warmer months. We don’t have the best setup for isolating a chicken in the winter, so we reunited Snow with Nellie and Hope, repeated the cornstarch treatment a couple of hours later, and hoped for the best overnight.
Snow was a bit slow getting up at dawn today, but she dug into her breakfast when I released the hens into the pen at 6:30 a.m. There was no sign of any fresh blood in the coop or on the toe, and Nellie and Hope ignored her, which was for the best.
Sometimes, animals know when we are trying to help them. I think that was the case yesterday afternoon when I held Snowy while Liz ministered to her. Snow was bright-eyed and alert but completely tranquil. She clucked occasionally in a soft, seemingly contented voice. Perhaps it signaled gratitude.
No comments:
Post a Comment