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Henny Penny & the Limited Power of Coupons

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 We’ve been keeping a close eye on Henny Penny.  Andre, her friend and protector, has been gone for nearly a week.  Chickens are social creatures with a strict pecking order.  We were concerned that the older hens would pick on her and she would be lonely.  While she’s definitely on the bottom rung of the poultry ladder, she is hanging on to the group most of the time.  She gets chased off now and then, but seems to be forming an alliance with Sally Turtle, our gentlest chicken.  Sally will forage next to her without bullying and even eat from my hand at the same time. 

 On Saturday night, Nora was having a terrible time falling asleep.  After a short period of quiet, we heard crying coming from her room.  I went in to check on her.  I sat next to her and she looked up at me and choked, “I’m sad that Andre died!  I’m sad that Andre died!”  I said I was sad, too.  Ben came in and we cried together until she fell asleep. 

 Last night, Nora was scribbling in a notebook my father-in-law made by hand.  She started to tear out a page, at which point, Ben and I protested, as it’s not that kind of notebook.  She burst into sobs. 

“But I made a coupon!”

“Hey, hey, let’s talk this out, we probably don’t need to cry, we can just talk and see what we can agree on,” I said.

 She inhaled deeply. 

“I made a coupon for Andre!”

Ben and I looked at each other. 

“What does the coupon say?” we asked simultaneously.

“We had Andre and she maybe she ate some fertilizer and got really sick and we tried to make her feel better and took her to the vet but it didn’t work and she died. So I made this coupon to get her back and I need to tear it out.”

 We all took a deep breath.

“Honey, that is so sweet of you.  That is exactly what happened, but Andre can’t come back.  When an animal or a person dies, they can’t come back.  Andre can’t eat or see or play or anything.  And he can’t come back.”

“She,” Nora corrected me.  Then I was left to explain that the vet looked at Andre and found she was a rooster, but we didn’t know it.  Blank stare. 

“It’s confusing, I know,” Ben said.

 We all talked a bit more about Andre; what we liked about her (him), how funny it was to watch her (him) run.  We agreed that she could tear the coupon out, but if she wanted to make more coupons, we’d find some different paper.

 I took her to the kitchen for a glass of water and noticed a half-dried tear at the corner of her left eye.  It matched my own.

Related posts:
It’s All Fun & Games Until Someone Gets an Impacted Crop
Andre

Saturday Feature: Mistakes

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Most Saturdays I bring you a parenting mistake my husband and I have made. Please have a laugh or cry at our expense — we really are good parents, I swear.

This week’s mistake involves setting a dangerous precedent.  Last night, we were all pretty wrung out.  We had little food in the house, so I packed kid and husband into the car and we went out for burritos.  Halfway through the meal, Nora gave signs that she needed to use the bathroom.  “Do you need to go potty?”  I asked.

“Do they have a potty here?”

“Yep, come on.  I’ll take you.”

It was a private restroom, no stalls.  Nora eyes widened in concern when she saw the huge toilet.  I tried to help her pull down her pants.  She whimpered, “I wanna go pee at home.”  Her legs were squeezed together and she was bouncing at the knee.

“Honey, I don’t think we’re going to make it all the way home without an accident.”

“The potty’s too big.”

“Hmm.  It’s not that big, it only comes up to my knee.  See?”

“I want a little potty.”

Nora rarely stonewalls in this manner, it was clear this toilet freaked her out.  It was equally clear her bladder was about to explode.  It was time to get creative.  I needed to make the toilet less intimidating.

“Okay, honey.  I have an idea.  I’ll sit on the toilet and you can sit up there with me.” Yes, I am that crazy, and the toilet was that big.

Nora immediately liked this idea.  I sat way back on the toilet, she pulled down her pants.  As I hoisted her up, I reminded her not to start peeing until I gave her the okay.  When she was in place, she started grunting.  Uh-oh.

“Are you pooping?”

“Yuh.”  She was holding her breath.

Nora is a champion pooper.  She won accolades at daycare for being the “best” pooper.  She takes her time and does a thorough job.  It’s rather magnificent. 

Now that I had some time to think and it dawned on me that this was not something I wanted to repeat in every public restroom from now until she grew bigger than most toilets.  Especially in restrooms that have stalls. 

I began to strategize.  If she asked me to do this next time, I could exaggerate the size of today’s toilet, saying it was much bigger.  Or I could tell her that she’s much bigger now.  Or I could pull a pretend shrinking pill out of my pocket, drop it in the bowl and tell her the toilet size was now reduced by 30 percent.  I had plenty of time to walk through several scenarios, as well as worry about getting poop on my jeans.

“Does it smell like mommy poop or Nora poop?” she asked.

“Nora poop.” I said.  She smiled.

Suddenly, a new problem occured to me: how am I going to wipe this child?  There was no room to manuever. 

After what felt like forty minutes, Nora announced she was done.  I picked her up by the armpits and placed her on the floor, instructing her to bend over.  The toilet was full of some of her best work.  I wiped her and shimmied off the toilet.  Nora flushed and ran to the other side of the bathroom, just as I had taught her, to avoid splashback.

Hand washing took another five minutes, as soap dispensers and automatic paper towel dispensers are inherently fascinating.

We finally returned to our table.  Ben was watching videos on my iPhone to pass the time.  He raised his eyebrows at me. 

“There’s a a story in it.”  I said.

Driver’s Test

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE

BEN The father

NORA The toddler

SCENE   In the car. BEN fastens NORA into her carseat.

NORA  Daddy, I want to drive home.

BEN  I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a driver’s test, and if you get all the answers right, you can drive home.  Ready?

NORA  Yes.

BEN   What’s the speed limit on the freeway?

NORA   You push the pedal!

BEN   Four cars arrive at a four-way stop at exactly the same time.  Who gets to go first?

NORA   Daddy!

BEN   How old do you have to be to drive a car?

NORA Three.

BEN  I think I better drive home, kiddo.

[Fade out]

Andre

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I came home around 9:00am to bring Andre to the avian vet. She was laying inert in her pen inside the coop. Henny Penny was standing just outside her pen.

I wrapped her in an old towel and felt her crop. It was smaller than earlier in the morning, another sign of hope, but she was certainly wasn’t showing any signs of feeling better. She closed her eyes for the ride. I held her in my lap while my friend drove.  Sandi grew up on a farm.  Her brothers raised chickens.  This was the first time she had taken a chicken to the vet.  In her day, chickens were livestock.  They were fifty cents a piece.  We talked a bit about how urban chicken keeping is a different kind of venture.  One that often hits harder in the pocketbook.  And the heart.

At the vet, I had the conversation about the types of measures I wanted to take. The technician was concerned by how sleepy she was. She suggested oxygen might give her a needed boost. Without it, she may not survive the ordeal of a tube down her throat. I consented to oxygen and nutrients, a fecal exam and any necessary antibiotics. Ben and I had talked on the phone beforehand, we were worried that if Andre died, Henny Penny would really struggle to survive with the rest of the flock who despised the two younger birds as interlopers. 

Some may call me crazy to give oxygen to a three month old chicken. I’m not going to try to convince you I’m not. But I take stewardship of animals seriously. I don’t want creatures dying due to my inexperience if a hundred bucks could save them. 

I went back to work, made a presentation, went to my exercise class and returned to my desk to find two missed phone calls from the vet. No message.

When I called back, the technician told me that Andre had been given oxygen, but it hadn’t helped.  She had died peacefully around 1:00pm.

The vet always recommends a necropsy to determine cause of death, to see if the rest of the flock is in jeopardy.  I shelled out for this as well.

My thoughts turned to telling Ben and then, Nora.  Nora was well aware that Andre had been sick.  When she came home from school, Andre would be gone.  Ben and I discussed our approach over the phone.  I found a few articles to verify what was age appropriate.  I coached myself on keeping things simple and remembering not to make references to death being like sleep.

I sat at my desk suddenly exhausted.  The rims of my eyes burned.

Once we got home, I took Nora into the backyard.  She asked, “Do you think Andre is feeling better?”

“Well, I need to talk to you about that.”  I motioned to Ben to join us on the patio, he was in the coop, checking on Henny Penny.

“Why do you need to talk to me?”

“Well, today I came home from work to take Andre to the vet, the animal doctor, because she still wasn’t feeling good.  The vet tried to help her feel better, but her body stopped working and she’s gone now.  She can’t come back.”

“Why she can’t come back?”

“Her body wouldn’t work.  She can’t eat or walk or play.  She died.  She can’t come back.  And it’s sad.  And it’s okay for you to be sad.  And Henny Penny will be sad.”

We went over this several times.  I explained all the things we had tried to make Andre feel better, but that they didn’t work.  Ben said he was sad, too. 

I took Nora over to talk to Henny Penny.  The little black hen gave me that look again.  I told her that I tried everything I could but her friend couldn’t come back.  I said I was sorry.

I reminded Nora that she had said she was thirsty in the car, would she like me to take her in for a drink of water?  No, she wanted to talk to Henny Penny again.  I repeated my speech to Henny Penny.  Ginger, the Welsummer chased her away before I could finish.

Thoughts turned to dinner.  Ben scrubbed the kitchen, which had been left in a state of neglect the night before during our ministrations for Andre.  I made nachos.

I wait for the vet to call, to tell me why this happened.

We are discovering where we are the spectrum between pets and livestock with our chickens.  If Hoover, the world’s best labrador retriever was being cut open on a table somewhere, I would be a wreck.  I know I will grieve for him for many, many days.  I am sad for my chicken.  I feel guilt.  I want to do better.  I don’t want to think in terms of fifty cent chickens.  They are living beings who bring me joy and make me food.  I will do what I can.

It’s All Fun & Games Until Someone Gets an Impacted Crop

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Dogs lay around most of the day, chickens do not.  They are constantly busy and usually stick rather close to one another.  If one is listless and by herself, she is sick.

I keep chickens.  I’m pretty new at it.  We have six hens.  On Sunday evening, Ben noticed that one of the youngest hens was acting funny.  Andre (a Jersey Giant) was not herself.  I glanced in her direction, thinking maybe the first of warm days of the year had her a bit tired out.

Last night, when we got home from work, I went to let all the girls out into the yard and found Andre hunkered down in the coop.

I scooped her up and checked her vent (the all purpose chicken exit).  It looked fine.  I looked for injuries.  I didn’t find any, but she didn’t seem as supple as my other birds and her feathers looked a bit ratty.

She was uninterested in grain.  I shooed her into the yard and she just found another place to hunker down.  Her best friend, an Australorp named Henny Penny, circled nervously around her.

Andre is my husband’s chicken.  Ben was not crazy about getting chickens, but after we got the first four, he came around and decided he wanted a Jersey Giant (the biggest chicken you can get).  She was his birthday present.  He named her Andre.  I do not want anything to happen to this chicken. 

Ben and I briefly discuss the possibility of taking her to the vet.  The regular vet may be an option, an emergency after-hours vet is not.

After dinner I check on her again.  She is hiding under Nora’s raised sandbox.  Henny Penny is still with her.  I squat down for another inspection.  She closes her eyes.  It seems she could stop breathing at any moment.  Henny Penny walks up to me and looks me straight in the eye.  Her brown eyes stare into mine for a good five seconds.  It is one of those moments of inter-species connection you may have had with a dog.  I just had it with a chicken.  I am now obligated to do everything I can to save Henny Penny’s friend and protector.

I return to the house and search the internet.  Nora, sensing tension, is at her toddler worst.  She is jumping on the bed, climbing on us, yelling.  Trying to step in the keyboard.  I am irritated and get a bit snappy.

Ben, in a stroke of absolutely beautiful parenting, gently pulls Nora close and explains that Andre is sick and we are trying to find out how to help her.  We are not mad at Nora, but we are worried about Andre, so we need her to use her gentlest touches and be as calm as she can while we figure out what to do.

I keep seeing mentions to check the chicken’s “crop.”  I do not know what a “crop” is, which frustrates me, as I feel like I researched chickens rather thoroughly.  I finally piece it together.  The crop sack located at the front of the chest and is used in digestion.  If the chicken eats a bunch of grass, or (god forbid) string, it can clump and impact the crop, preventing nutrients from being absorbed and actually starving the chicken.  It can take awhile for the chicken to show signs of illness. 

Back outside, I feel the around on Andre’s chest and find her crop feels like a wad of silly putty.  I grab Henny Penny, her crop is undetectable.  I run to the coop, where Ben has put the older hens, to keep them from bullying the sick chicken.  All their chests are smooth.

Following instructions from the internet, Ben takes Nora downstairs to get a plastic tube, while I mix a solution of plain yogurt and olive oil.  I scoop up Andre, flip her over, force open her beak, put the tube in her mouth and pour the mixture down her gullet.  Righting her, I wait a few minutes.  Then I begin to gently knead the ball of goo stuck in her crop.  At intervals, I grab her feet and turn her upside down, hoping she will vomit some of the contents of her crop.  Very little comes back out.  I wait awhile, still holding her.  I find I am rocking her like a baby.  Nora and Ben sit on the patio.  Nora is calm, asking questions.  We explain there is some grass and junk stuck in Andre’s throat and we need to help her get it out.  Nora comes over and I place her hand on the swollen crop so she can feel the mass. 

Ben constructs a holding pen in the coop, to keep Andre safe and separated.  He hangs the chick light, to keep her warm, as she’s been shaking a bit.  We give her fresh water and a small amount of food.  We tuck everyone in for the night.

This morning, Henny Penny was roosting on the electrical cord of the chick light, keeping vigil.  Andre was laying quietly in her pen.  The mass is a bit smaller, but still substantial.  I gave her another treatment and will speak with the vet today.  I am hopeful.

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