Twinkydink hatched in the early spring of 2005. She is really, really old.

I can’t remember the last time she laid an egg.

But, the other day she spent a long morning in the nesting box. And when she came out, this was there.

It’s a funny, pointy, triangularly shaped egg. If there was a senior olympics for hens, she just won the gold.

Today’s post about Agnes and end of life decisions was difficult, serious, important. Sad. It took me a long time to put into words what  I needed to say. I appreciate all of your support, both for the loss, and for my writing about a topic that is hard to get down and hard to get right.

My blog is just a small window into what goes on in my backyard. The thing about sharing my life with animals and having a garden, is that there is so much complexity in this small place that I live, that there might be sadness in one corner, but when I turn my head, there is something else to see that is beautiful and soul-satisfying.

And then there are the goats. So far, the goats have been nothing but sheer, hilarious fun. I’m sure there will be difficult days with the boys, too. Someday. But not today. This photo was taken this afternoon.

No one can wallow in their sorrows when one has goats to spend time with.

Agnes had been in obvious decline for two months, but her laying days were already well over. She never resumed laying after last autumn’s molt. At three and a half years of age, she wasn’t elderly, like venerable Eleanor, but Agnes, being a hybrid (a Golden Comet) had been a highly productive layer and I assumed that she was simply worn out. Her sister, Philomena, also stopped laying. But, as summer settled in it was clear that one of the Comets was doing fine and the other was not.

In April, Agnes looked seriously ill. Her comb went from red to a dark rust color. She stood hunched. When allowed to free-range she pecked at the grass half-heartily. This was in stark contrast to her usual behavior as an active forager. I tried the Spa Treatment and it seemed to give her some relief. Her comb reddened and she perked up. But then the comb darkened again and Agnes slowed down even more.

I kept an eye on Agnes. Although it was obvious that Agnes was sick by her posture and activity level, she was still roosting. She still went out with the other hens in the morning to get a bit of sunflower seed. But, yesterday Agnes didn’t come off of the roost. Buffy needs help off of the roost, too, but this was different. Buffy’s eyes are bright and eager in the morning and she starts eating as soon as I set her down. When I put Agnes on the floor of the coop, she didn’t walk to the feeder or to the door. She just stood there. I watched her some more during the day. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d think that Agnes was eating. She pecked. But, I noticed that she wasn’t picking up food. Hens will do this. Much of their behavior is automatic. A sick hen will go through the motions. You have to be very observant to see whether she is actually ingesting anything.

In the past, I always said that I’d let my hens live their days until they die naturally. Then I started doing necropsies. What I found inside of the hens was disturbing. A chicken can live a long time with a diseased body before she shows outward signs of illness. A hen can starve to death right under your loving care. I wouldn’t let that happen to Agnes. I asked Steve to euthanize Agnes. I knew that she was suffering.

I did a necropsy. Agnes’ crop was stretched into a thin membrane and filled with brown fluid. Her intestinal tract was hardened and twisted. Nothing could get through. Her gizzard was tumorous. I don’t know how long she had been unable to digest food. I don’t know at what point in the last two months her diseased body reached the point where it went into failure, or how long she could have continued to live like that. I know that by yesterday she was suffering, but how much before that? Should I have euthanized her last week? The week before that?

I used to say that I’d know when a hen was done when she stopped roosting. Agnes proved me wrong. She was starving and yet she roosted and moved about with the flock. Now I know to watch and make sure that the ill hen is eating. When a hen looks sick, I will get out a scale and weigh her. A precipitous weight loss will be a sign that her internal organs are not functioning. I do know that I no longer think that it is a kindness to let a hen die on her own when she is obviously failing. I will not let a chicken suffer for weeks.

But, then, what of Eleanor and Edwina? They no longer scratch the ground. They no longer actively forage. But, they roost, they are social, and most importantly, they still eat with gusto. A sick hen will stand hunched, almost upright, and apart from the others. Eleanor likes to nap in the middle of the ruckus. That’s the difference.

In the past these issues never came up. For the first year, a flock of hens was kept for their eggs. By winter all of the hens were harvested for meat, except for the very best layers who were kept through to the next season. At the end of their second year of laying the two-year old hens would go into the stew pot. Those of us who get attached to our birds don’t want to eat them. We want to give our chickens a good life into their old age. The sad reality is that cancer, tumors, and major organ failures are common in older hens. It’s also true that a hen will not tell you that she’s suffering. It’s up to us to be observant, thoughtful, and compassionate. I’m still learning when the hard decision to euthanize should be made. What I do know is that it is the right thing to do.

We all know that roosters are loud, what with their cock-a-doodle-doing all day long. That’s one reason why towns and cities ban the boys. It’s true that hens don’t crow, but that doesn’t mean that your flock will be quietly unobtrusive. Sure, some hens go about their days saying nothing. Others chuck-chuck and bawk-bawk in low pitches, almost under their breath, like they’re talking to themselves. Some only up the volume when they’ve laid their eggs, announcing the achievement with a quick squawk and then returning to their quiet lives.

But other hens are loud. Very loud. Onyx, my Barnevelder, is a talker. She broadcasts that she’s stepped into the coop. She lets everyone knows that she’s going back outside. A half-hour before laying an egg she’ll increase the volume while stomping around the barn. Etheldred is another one that wants to be heard. This video is less than 30 seconds, but it’ll give you a good idea of the racket that a couple of loud hens can make.

But neither of these two girls compare to my late and much missed New Hampshire Red hen, Marge. She and her twin sister, Petunia, always traveled side by side, but it was easy to tell them apart. You knew it was Marge by her vocalizations. She was like an ever-present haranguing, argumentative, demanding aunt. She’d watch me garden, constantly clucking in what sounded like a stream of criticisms. “You’re doing what?” “Not there!” “Toss me the bug, now!” Petunia never said a word. Marge had such an insistent, unique voice that we made it into a ringtone. I have it on my iPhone timer. When I put money into a parking meter, I set the timer to remind me when the time is up. There’s nothing like having Marge squawking at me to get me running to the car. If you have an iPhone, you can hear her (and get the ringtone) by going to the iTunes store and searching for HenCam.

When you have a loud hen (or two, or three) you worry, and rightly so, that the noise will bother your neighbors. Certainly the cackling of a hen is not pretty or melodic. If you happen to have a chicken that makes most of her vocalizations in the morning, you can keep the coop dark (and the inhabitants asleep) until a reasonable hour. But, most noisy hens are noisy all day. Fences and screening with sound-absorbing plants make for good neighbors. Keeping the hens busy with compost and greens keeps their beaks pecking instead of talking. Siting the coop under your bedroom window, not the neighbor’s, is the prudent thing to do. But, honestly, if you have a noisy hen, well, it’ll be noisy. It helps to keep it in perspective. For example, Onyx isn’t half as loud as my neighbor’s lawn mower. Etheldred’s voice can’t drown out the sound of an idling FedEx truck. A neighbor’s barking dog is as loud as Garnet (another noisy girl here.) And if you have a hen like Marge, when she’s gone it will be markedly quieter and you’ll miss the hubbub.

It’s just about impossible to accurately diagnose why a hen is sick. Many ailments present the same symptoms. The hen stands hunched and wings down.

When she does walk, she looks more like a penguin than a chicken. She’s off her feed. Her eyes are half-shut. She might have stopped laying, or looks strained when trying to lay. She might have diarrhea, or produce no manure at all.

Her comb might be pale, or dark, or shriveled.

Sadly, all too often, these are signs of terminal illnesses. Cancer. Peritonitis. Organ failure. But, sometimes there IS a cure, and it’s simple. I call it The Spa Treatment, and it’s a combination of an epsom salt soak, a dose of olive oil and TLC.

These hens have all been on the brink of death. They’ve shown a myriad of symptoms, and The Spa Treatment has cured them, or at least provided some relief. The hens are old and they’re crotchety, but they’re still here.

I’ve written a FAQ detailing how to give the Spa Treatment. Let me know if it helps your hens.