Hospice

“What’s new?” a friend asked me on the phone today. “Oh, you know. We fertilized the garlic, one of our chickens died,” I answered.

A week ago, we noticed one of the hens was limping a bit. We didn’t think too much of it. The next day while Joe and I were doing the evening chicken chore, we found her hiding in a laying box unable to walk. Because chickens love to pick on their weaker peers, the next morning we moved her out of the orchard. We thought she’d likely have to be killed since we can’t do much with a hen that can’t walk. So we called the quiet pen we set up for her ‘hospice’. She had fresh minors lettuce to feast on and I put a bowl of grain and one of water so close to her that she could reach them without moving. The next day as we weeded the strawberry field we took all the grubs we found in the dirt to her.

Probably just because I was the one to initially get her food and water set up, I took to caring for her. But maybe the reason I was so drawn to her was because she was the first chicken I’ve ever held. We started calling her Hospice. Everyone asked about her throughout the day. I talked to her each time I walked down the path past her pen. Janet kept the positive attitude that maybe just some rest would let her foot heal and she’d be fine. Since I don’t know much about chicken health, I adopted Janet’s attitude. The following day we delivered more grubs to her as we prepped the new beds for apple trees.

Over the three days, she only moved herself twice. The first time was in freight of me, but after that she seemed to recognize me was comfortable with me tending to her. The second time she moved herself was just before dusk on the second night, and I thought that must be a sign of improving health. I excitedly texted Janet and Jeff, “Lil’ hospi hen moved herself a bit to settle in for the night, she may pull out of it yet!”

Each morning I moved her to a fresh bed of hay since without walking she pooped right where she lay. Each evening, I notice her energy decreasing, and her poop looking more and more sickly. We read up on chicken diseases and found no matching symptoms. On Saturday morning, she barely was holding her head up, she hadn’t moved herself since Wednesday night, and her poop had become bizarre. I walked to Janet and Jeff’s cabin to deliver the news. It was time to slaughter her.

Janet asked if I wanted to help. I said no. Apparently it didn’t go too smoothly. But the next time I walked down the path the pen was empty. Her carcass was composted and she will continue to be part of creating life here on the farm. It’s still sad to walk past her empty pen. But caring for her allowed me to overcome my aversion to chickens and to realize how soft their bodies and feathers are and how smooth and tender their creepy looking feet actually feel.

So, yesterday Hospice died. Today I tended to the garlic. Tomorrow we’ll plant raspberries. Such is what’s new on the farm.