Keeping chickens brings its share of aggravation and heartache, perhaps even more if it involves a small flock whose members you treat as pets.
Since my wife Liz and I first acquired hens back in 2012, we have lost two chickens to disease and a third to problems stemming from age. That last death was especially difficult because it involved Snow, a boisterous Plymouth Rock who oozed personality. When I brought her to the vet to be euthanized two years ago, I held her in my arms as Snow — once so bossy and exuberant — quietly slipped away.
We have only two hens now: Nellie and Hope, Rhode Island Reds who hatched in January 2013. They, too, have seen their share of problems lately.
Hope has had a growth in her chest for several months. A veterinarian who examined her in May suspected it might be a tumor that is likely to claim her life before this coming winter is done and gone. And now we’re combating an infestation of mites that probably were introduced to ”the girls” by wild birds or other critters making their rounds in the backyard, where our coop and pen are located. We seem to be winning that battle, though.
Maybe it’s because of such problems, not despite them, that I enjoy dealing with the hens as much as I do. Nellie and Hope still love life. They’re still up to the challenge. By the time I get out to the coop at dawn, they’re at the large window on the east side, anxiously waiting for me to release them into the pen.
Both hens eagerly dig into their breakfast. Later in the day, they dance in anticipation when they see me approaching with mealworms or dandelion greens or kale or berries. Nellie has been laying eggs regularly again this year, which is somewhat unusual for a hen her age.
Whether by choice or infirmity,”the girls” don’t hop up to the roost to sleep anymore, but snuggle together in a nest box that’s really only big enough for one hen, yet somehow accommodates two. The lives of animals, like the lives of humans, are fragile, troubled and transitory. So we savor their presence, while we can.
Since my wife Liz and I first acquired hens back in 2012, we have lost two chickens to disease and a third to problems stemming from age. That last death was especially difficult because it involved Snow, a boisterous Plymouth Rock who oozed personality. When I brought her to the vet to be euthanized two years ago, I held her in my arms as Snow — once so bossy and exuberant — quietly slipped away.
We have only two hens now: Nellie and Hope, Rhode Island Reds who hatched in January 2013. They, too, have seen their share of problems lately.
Hope has had a growth in her chest for several months. A veterinarian who examined her in May suspected it might be a tumor that is likely to claim her life before this coming winter is done and gone. And now we’re combating an infestation of mites that probably were introduced to ”the girls” by wild birds or other critters making their rounds in the backyard, where our coop and pen are located. We seem to be winning that battle, though.
Maybe it’s because of such problems, not despite them, that I enjoy dealing with the hens as much as I do. Nellie and Hope still love life. They’re still up to the challenge. By the time I get out to the coop at dawn, they’re at the large window on the east side, anxiously waiting for me to release them into the pen.
Both hens eagerly dig into their breakfast. Later in the day, they dance in anticipation when they see me approaching with mealworms or dandelion greens or kale or berries. Nellie has been laying eggs regularly again this year, which is somewhat unusual for a hen her age.
Whether by choice or infirmity,”the girls” don’t hop up to the roost to sleep anymore, but snuggle together in a nest box that’s really only big enough for one hen, yet somehow accommodates two. The lives of animals, like the lives of humans, are fragile, troubled and transitory. So we savor their presence, while we can.
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