Blackie had been ill for a long time. Like many older animals, she walked stiffly and rested frequently. At the age of six she was well past the end of her productive life, but I’m not a farmer that has to have each animal contribute to the bottom line and so we kept her on. She was part of the fabric of the backyard community.

But, in the last two months, I questioned whether her continued longevity was the right thing. The other chickens knew that she was on the outs. They pecked her back unmercifully until there was raw flesh, unprotected by feathers. I put her in a separate coop. The feathers grew back, but not her strength. She couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds at a time. Still, her poops were normal, she was eating and drinking, and Eleanor sat by the coop, keeping her friend company.

You can’t always “let nature take it’s course.” We’ve already altered nature. A chicken, after all, is a domestic farm animal. It depends on us for food and protection and I like to think it appreciates the home we give it. Leave a chicken to it’s own resources in the wild of my backyard and it would be dead within days. The chickens stay alive because of my good care, and sometimes, they die because I deem it the time to go. I’ve had many sick chickens and watched some die. If you wait for that “they’ve given up all hope” look in their eyes, you’re unlikely to see it. Yesterday it appeared that Blackie had her final stroke. A wing fell limp to her side. And yet she pecked at corn and turned a black, shiny eye to the outside world. She was not going to tell me that she’d had enough. I’ve seen a severely wounded chicken act as if she was not in any pain. Chickens could teach the fire-walking, sleep on a bed of nails swamis a thing or two.

Because I have coddled this hen, she was already alive for far longer than she would have if I’d let “nature take it’s course.” I’d already saved her from being killed by the flock. Her water was laced with antibiotics so the mycoplasma wouldn’t infect her. She had food and water nearby so she didn’t have to stand up. I dusted her with louse powder because she couldn’t dust bathe.

Blackie wasn’t going to look me softly in the eye and plead to go.

Steve took her out of her coop yesterday and sat her on the ground. She pecked at some grass and ate. She tried to stand but couldn’t. She was no longer capable of doing even one behavior that mark a chicken as a chicken. No dust bathing, no roosting, no scratching in the dirt. It was time.

Because you’ll ask, I’ll tell you how Steve did it. He does a quick neck pull near the skull. Blackie was so on automatic pilot that, although dead, her heart kept beating for awhile. It’s brutal to watch, even if you’ve seen it before. He buried her in the meadow next to Lulu.

Blackie was a good big basic black laying hen. She wasn’t a favorite like Lulu, but we were happy to have her in the flock. I knew, when I ordered the chicks this spring, that Blackie would be gone by the time they were laying. Chickens don’t last long, but their leaving is always hard.

In just a week away:

The chicks turned into baby pterodactyls. Look at those feathers and scrawny necks!

As the adult feathers emerge, vast quantities of dander is created. A sticky dust layers the barn. I’m grateful the chicks aren’t in a brooder in the house.

The smallest blue cochin remains weak and half the size of the others, but she is still hanging in there. If she survives, she’s going to be a gorgeous slate gray.

The others are robust and voracious eaters. I love that they are catching mosquitos that fly by! We sure have enough of those nasty bugs – rainy and dark days are prime breeding times. Speaking of bugs, I picked up a tool, which angered a wasp hiding on it. Got stung on my right palm, which has made it difficult to do anything for the last day. Amazing how it can be itchy and painful at the same time. Luckily, I’m not allergic, so no trip to the hospital – just poultice after poultice of baking soda.

Also in the last week:

Flowers bloomed.

The washing machine broke, then Steve fixed it, and now I’m on my sixth load of laundry, with at least three more before I’m caught up (I’ll spare you the photo.)

Hens got sick. Some got better, some didn’t. Chores are longer, what with putting antibiotics in the water, and keeping Candy out of that same water. (I’ll have an update later in the week about the mycoplasma saga.)

Blackie took a turn for the worse. Decisions to come there.

The vegetable garden grew. Seedlings needed thinning. Oh, how I hate that job of pulling up healthy plants. Of course, if I don’t thin, I won’t have any carrots at all. Luckily, the boys adore carrot tops. Their happy munchings and burps turned the hated task into something fun.

I’m sowing flower seeds and planting tomatoes, preparing the pumpkin patch and pulling dandelions. I was away only a week, but I feel a month behind. I suppose I can’t blame the trip entirely – springtime is like that, isn’t it?

While I was off in England, Steve had a crisis here at home. On Sunday night he noticed that Lulu’s breath sounded a tad raspy. On Monday morning she obviously had a respiratory ailment. He did exactly the right thing – isolated her in a crate, moved her indoors to keep her warm, and evaluated her condition. By late Monday morning, Lulu’s eyes were gunking up and swelling shut. It seemed like a clear case of mycoplasma. We’ve had it here before, so he knew what to do and we had the antibiotic, Tylan, on hand to treat her. But, it wasn’t enough. Lulu died Monday night. She was a beloved character and is already sorely missed.

Mycoplasma spreads fast. On Monday, Maizie showed symptoms. Steve started her immediately on the Tylan. She didn’t get better, so Steve hurried her to an avian vet on Tuesday. The vet confirmed that it looked like mycoplasma and put her on Doxycycline, an antibiotic known to be potent against the disease. Maizie will get half a 100mg pill once a day for ten days. The rest of the hens were put on Tylan, via the drinking water, as a preventative measure. England was dry, but here it’s been raining and drizzling non-stop, and there are puddles in the run. The hens have to drink their medicine, not rainwater, and so they’ve been closed up in the coop. No one has been happy.

I knew what was going on. Steve has been texting me. Fortunately, I was staying with hen keepers who understood how I could get so sad over the loss of a chicken. I came home from my trip late last night. First thing this morning I went to the coop and carefully inspected the hens. Siouxsie’s left eye was swollen shut. I fixed up a crate for her in the basement. Maizie is still down there. I fed them scrambled eggs (which otherwise would have to be thrown out because of the antibiotics in the water.) Maizie ate. Siouxie did not, but she did drink a lot. I got sand to spread in the run and rid it of puddles. The hens came out, but that meant that Candy had to stay in. I can’t risk her drinking the medicated water.

We have instituted strict biosecurity to keep the chicks as safe as we can. My new, clean pink boots from England will be worn in the big barn. My old red ones will be worn in the infected HenCam coop. I have a different jacket to wear for each barn. Hands will be washed before going to the chick’s enclosure. I won’t be handling the chicks at all. I’m hoping these steps will be enough. So far, the chicks show no sign of disease. I don’t know where the Mycoplasma originated. Maybe one of my old hens was a carrier and Lulu was susceptible. Maybe a wild bird brought it in. Few backyards are free of it. Mycoplasma is virulent when in a body, but dies quickly outside the bird in the sunshine. I’m hoping that things will dry up, but we’re not supposed to get blue skies until Sunday.

I’ve known people who, when Mycoplasma swept through their flocks, decided to cull all the hens, wait half a year and start again. I know others that keep a couple of chronically affected chickens. Sometimes Mycoplasma kills all the birds within the week, and sometimes antibiotics saves half your flock. Going to a veterinarian is not a necessity. The vet will only tell you what you already know – that you need to treat with Tylan. In the United States, you can get drugs on-line and in feed stores. Even if you have access to an avian vet, few of them have experience with chickens. The decision to go to a vet is difficult. It will be expensive. Although we hate to put a price on our animals, we have to. How much are you willing to spend on your chickens? Will spending that money make a difference? I think that it is realistic to have limits. Around here, an office visit is $65. The drugs this time came to another $30. However, going to the vet enabled Steve to get pills that are more potent than the widely available powders. Hopefully, that will save Maizie. Steve also decided to take the extra step and have a blood sample sent to a lab to confirm the mycoplasma diagnosis. Having peace of mind that we know what the disease is will cost us $137. (I’ll post as soon as the results come in.) I have a friend who lost a couple of birds to disease. Her other hens are fine. Finances are tight. She decided not to do a lab test. That was a good decision, too.

I don’t know how this will all settle out. Siouxsie is making sad chirrups sounds. Maizie is eating, but weak. We’ll do what we can.

Lulu has been buried in the meadow.

This morning I said good-bye to Celia’s handsome chickens

and her beautiful 18th c. walled garden

and headed over to Cambridge for a stroll. It’s a beautiful place. Here are the famous punts.

There are gorgeous buildings, like this.

Fortunately, Celia knows her Cambridge and medieval history, so I also got a sense of the stories behind this many-layered city.

Celia’s husband graciously drove me to Heathrow Airport. I had my suitcase and prized possession – the bucket.

I found this pail in Rye at an antique shop. It’s dirty and large, and I love it! It was probably handmade by a farmer during WWII when metal was rationed. I was concerned about getting through security, but it was so unusual that the gatekeepers all laughed and waved me through. One even told me about her grandfather who had made such things.

It’s been a fantastic trip, but I’m eager to get home.

Celia and I went to two gardens today. The first, Ickworth House, could be used for one of those BBC dramas where everyone sweeps about in gowns or brocade footman’s outfits, and there’s lots of intrigue but they don’t actually do much.

It was fascinating to see, but I wouldn’t have wanted to live here, whether I was royalty or a servant.

Then we went to Wyken Vineyards.

This is the house. I’m told it’s a “gentleman farmer’s house” and not a grand estate. Really? (By the way, although the grounds are open to the public, this is a private home.)

The garden designer is a master of color and composition. I’ve never seen a garden with these hues of reds, oranges, maroons, yellows and greens. With sharp blue for punctuation. It worked! Every bit of it. Here’s the back of the house.

Better yet, hens live here.

And showy peafowl.

There’s also sheep and llamas, turkeys and guinea fowl. Vegetable gardens, a nuttery, and a maze. And a meadow planted with wildflowers.

I didn’t see any ponies or goats. But that could be easily remedied. And then it’d be perfect.