The bulk of the chickens in my flock
are in their fourth year - well past the age that most commercial laying hens are allowed to live. And I know that chickens don't live forever. Over the millennia that
chickens have been domesticated, high egg production was the trait that was
valued above all else—so that's the trait that was selected for. Longevity wasn’t even considered, since
chickens typically were slaughtered long before the end of their natural
life. Thus, chickens don’t have long
lives. Laying an egg practically every day eventually wears a hen out. It is highly probable that eventually
something will go wrong with her complex, high production egg-laying machinery—the
oviduct becomes infected; an egg becomes impacted; the oviduct breaks and leaks
yolk into the abdominal cavity which becomes infected; tumors form—the list
goes on.
When I was a kid on the farm, the
problems of aging hens was not a problem because there were no aging hens. Chickens
raised for meat were slaughtered in their first year. Laying hens were kept for two years and when
their egg production slowed they became stew.
Old chickens and their health problems became a reality only recently, when people like me started keeping small backyard
flocks. We backyard chicken people bond
with our chickens and our rationale for keeping them goes beyond eggs and
meat. We keep them for the pleasure of
keeping them, and for the satisfaction that comes with nurturing them and
giving them a good and happy life.
Chickens have become pets. And
that’s OK—chickens are fascinating, compelling, and beautiful animals. But the grim reality that is interwoven with
the many pleasures of keeping a flock of backyard hens is the anxiety and angst
of dealing with the inevitable sick birds and the anguish when one of those
sick birds dies.
Before I tell the story of the recent
illness of two of my hens, let me say that if you are the keeper of a small
flock and you stumbled across this post looking for information about your sick
hen, then I hope you can find some information here that is of value to you. But bear in mind that this information is about two specific hens. There are,
however, resources that are encyclopedic on the subject of chicken maladies
that you should check out. Gail Damerow
is an expert on all aspects of chicken keeping and has written an informative
and well-organized book entitled, “The Chicken Health Handbook.” The
second edition is available from Amazon, and the first
edition is actually available in its entirety on-line. The wonderful Terry Golson has been blogging
about chickens for years on her Hen Cam
blog. While she is no longer actively
blogging about chickens (she’s moved on to horses, her other passion), all of
her blog archives are still available and contain a trove of information on chicken
health issues. Finally, Kathy Shea
Mormino continues to blog about backyard chickens as the Chicken Chick. The information on chicken health on her blog
is both comprehensive and trustworthy—plus it’s just fun to read! Her blog is one of the blogs I have listed on
the sidebar to the right.
Chickens, in the scheme of things, are
prey animals. And every chicken innately
understands that the weak perish. Consequently,
a chicken has to be suffering enormously before it can no longer maintain the
façade that all is well. So when I found
Arlene Barred Rock sitting alone in the hen pen one day in late June when the
other chickens had gone indoors to roost for the evening, I knew something was
very wrong. I had just arrived home from
an out-of-town trip and when I first saw her I wasn’t even sure it was
Arlene. For a moment I wondered if
somebody had sneaked a bedraggled old hen with huge patches of missing feathers
into my coop. Arlene was an active,
inquisitive hen and a member of a junta of four Barred Rocks that ruled the
coop. This hen before me looked like an old and exhausted version of Arlene. She
didn’t seem eager to move and when she finally got up and walked I saw that she
was walking with a profound limp—hardly putting any weight on her right
foot. I scooped her up and carried her
into the pole barn and immediately gave her a thorough physical exam. The
Chicken Chick blog gives a great outline of how to give a hen a physical, and it
was my modified version of that procedure that I performed then, giving special
attention to her feet and legs. Her comb
was a healthy red, there was no noticeable bloating of her crop or abdomen, and
no wounds, blood, or exterior signs of physical trauma. My best guess was that she had somehow caught
her leg in something and had strained muscles or tendons in pulling it
free. The feather loss was obviously due
to a molt. While a June molt is extremely
unusual, chickens will sometimes spontaneously molt when subjected to stress,
and Arlene’s accident and subsequent lameness was, without question,
stressful. The fact that the rest of the
flock was fine allowed me to rule out a predator attack or any event that would
have involved the whole flock.
I have a dog crate that functions as
my all-purpose chicken sick room and broody hen rehab space. I put Arlene in that crate for the night, and
that’s where she continued to live for the next few days—a confined space forced
her to stay off her bad leg. She got
free access to water and her normal chicken food along with a daily handful of
scratch grain as a treat. The only meds
I gave her was a daily baby (81 mg) aspirin to manage her leg pain. Normally, to get a chicken to eat aspirin, I
crush it in a little oatmeal, but in this case, since Arlene was molting and
needed extra protein for feather growth I mashed the aspirin into a tablespoon
of canned cat food. Chickens love cat
food. Arlene would greedily eat it down
to the last nibble and she learned to look forward it to every day. After a week in the crate, I moved her to a
small pen in the corner of the big chicken coop, which gave her a little more
space and allowed her to visit with the other hens through the fence. Her featherless patches eventually sprouted
pinfeathers and began to fill in. When
she eventually started regrowing her tail feathers she began to look like
Arlene again. And she began to act like the
old Arlene. Arlene was always the hen
that would follow me around when I was in the coop, and would often come up and
peck me on the leg, just to make sure I was paying attention. I knew she was starting to feel better the
day I walked into her corner pen and she looked up at me and pecked me on the
leg. Last week, in order to give her an
opportunity to exercise her leg, I allowed her to access the center part of the
pole barn where I store supplies and tools and park the tractor. She contentedly wandered around that space
and pecked at random bits of spilled grain on the floor. She still walked with a decided limp, but she
was bright eyed, alert, and happy.
A bedraggled and molty Arlene in the chicken sick room |
Arlene loves her aspirin-laced cat food! |
Arlene explores some pine shavings in the tractor front-end loader |
Then last Wednesday evening the
situation that started Arlene’s ordeal played itself out again—this time with a
different hen. As I was closing the coop
for the night, I found Rhoda the Rhode Island Red sitting alone in the hen pen
after the other chickens had gone indoors to roost for the evening. Again, I knew something was very wrong. There are holes in the ground in the hen pen that the hens
had excavated for dust bathing. It had
been raining all day, these holes had filled with water and Rhoda was sitting
in one. She was wet, muddy, and
bedraggled. I picked her up, carried her
into the coop and set her gently on the floor.
For some reason this triggered some sort of primitive flock defensive
response in the other chickens and they swarmed Rhoda and began to aggressively
peck her. It was a strange situation,
she was acting strangely, and maybe the other hens didn’t even realize it was
just Rhoda. I instantly rescued her from
the other hens and moved her to Arlene’s corner pen. Arlene was pecking at some feed when I
brought Rhoda in and she looked up briefly as if to say, "Oh. Hi, Rhoda!" and then went back to
pecking. No drama from Arlene at all. Rhoda pecked at feed a little and drank
some water, but mostly just stood around lethargically with her tail down - not
a good sign. I decided, since it was
roosting time, that I would leave her alone for the night and do a full exam
the next morning. I knew that I would
worry about her all night, though, and that’s exactly what I did.
Thursday morning, as soon as I was
out of bed, I went right to the coop to check on Rhoda. What I found was not good. Rhoda was in a corner of the pen, hunched up
with her eyes closed and obviously in pain.
Her comb had taken on a bluish hue, her abdomen was swollen like a
balloon, and there was a hard lump at the base.
The swelling was probably caused by ascites, the accumulation of fluid
in the abdominal cavity—ascites is a symptom of some underlying problem and its
presence is almost always an indicator that the underlying problem has proceeded
to a point where the chicken can’t be saved.
The lump maybe was a tumor, or it may have been a formed egg. But if it was an egg it was in completely the
wrong part of her body and would have been there only because it had torn out
of her oviduct due to some sort of blockage.
I knew then that the best kindness I
could provide Rhoda was to end her suffering.
I euthanized her in a gentle and nontraumatic way and buried her in the
woods. Terry Golson has written in her
Hen Cam Blog that in her early days of hen keeping she felt that she would let her hens live
their days until they died of natural causes.
Then she started doing necropsies.
“What I found inside of the hens was disturbing,” Golson says, “A
chicken can live a long time with a diseased body before she shows outward
signs of illness. A hen can starve death right under your loving care.” Euthanasia is a final kind deed you can do for your suffering hen.
I grieve for my hens. If you’ve ever lost a pet, you understand
what I’m talking about. Although there
are differences. Sick dogs and cats usually
go to the vet and undergo reams of tests before you decide, with the vet’s
input, that nothing more can be done. But
when a chicken has reached the end of its life, there’s really very little that
can be done, and there’s nobody to share the decision-making responsibility with. You’re on your own. So you make the decision and then you grieve. My grief is tempered by this: At any given moment there are twenty billion
chickens alive in the world. For the
most part the lives of these chickens are short and unpleasant. But Rhoda got to live like a chicken. Her days were filled with egg laying, pecking
and scratching in the run, dust bathing, and interacting with the other hens in
the flock. She lived a good life. And in the course of living her life, she,
along with the other chickens in my flock provided me with unquantifiable happiness.
I paused in writing this to go to the coop, tend to the hens, and gather eggs. Arlene was at the far end of the pole barn when I walked in and she ran to me, then pecked my leg. To be sure, it was a gimpy run, but she was running. It’s time to starting thinking about transitioning Arlene back into the coop with the other hens. Life in the coop goes on.
Rhoda |
I'm sorry to hear about the loss of Rhoda, Randy. I understand the grief. I also understand the solace that comes from knowing that you gave a furry or feathered family member a rewarding life, as loved and happy as they could ever be, for however many days they had been given on this Earth. Sometimes it needs to be enough comfort to get us through.
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