The Beast and her minions survived the winter.

Despite the state of suspended animation that the fish were in all winter, somehow they managed to double in size! I will have to find homes for some of them.

Meanwhile, although patches of snow remain, the sun came out and I have begun the springtime yard cleanup. I raked and deadheaded the perennial herb bed. Those brown leaves on the ground? Frozen solid. I’ll have to do another quick raking in a week or so.

Yesterday, I cleaned up around the raspberries and lopped off old canes. Luckily, the bushes are on the right side of the fence. Three feet of snow remains piled up on the left, a reminder of the snow plow that we saw so frequently this past winter.

There’s so much to do! The butterfly garden needs attention.

The Gems have offered their assistance and have been loosening packed down leaves and destroying all lurking larvae.

Yesterday I was in a store looking at gardening tools and noticed the seed display. There was a two for one sale! Despite the fact that I have not yet taken stock of the seeds leftover from last year, I couldn’t help myself. I bought 18 packets. Even those of us who are frugal and careful shoppers suffer lapses and go on seed buying sprees this time of year. Kale will be sowed today.

Spring is here.

Horses are generally quiet animals. They do most of their communicating with their bodies. Why talk when a flick of an ear can bring all of your pasture-mates to attention? Once in awhile, though, a horse will use his voice. Some horses don’t like to leave the group, and, when ridden away from home on the trails, will holler to let his friends know that he is returning. That neigh can resonate so loudly that it will rattle his rider’s bones. Sometimes, a horse, when faced with new horses, like when she is unloaded off of the trailer at a show, will stand with head raised, tail up, and shout. That neigh pierces through all of the show hubbub and can drown out the announcer on the PA system.

Sometimes the quiet in the pasture is broken by a horse’s squeal of displeasure. Perhaps someone got into someone else’s space, and was then presented with a haunch and a lifted hoof with the threat of a kick. A squeal adds punctuation to the body language. If you have mares, then you know what happens when they come into season. There are moods. There are flirtations and then (for the geldings) many confusing “go away” squeals.

But, for the owner of a horse, the most wonderful sound of all is the nicker. Imagine a horse chortling. It is an expression of the anticipation of pleasure. You’ll hear nickers in the barn at feeding time because horses do love their grain. The feeding time nicker is an urgent sort of sound. During the rest of the day, horses rarely nicker. A nicker in the field is reserved for only the best of friends, and it is softer and more melodic than the feed me! vocalization. Some horses never nicker at all. When you do hear it, you know that two very good friends are greeting each other. It is a clear sign of affection.

I’ve had Tonka now since the beginning of December. Last week, when I was walking out to his paddock, he nickered for me.

This is how we greet each other.

Hello, Tonka!

He looks my way.

Tonka turns.

Come!

He thinks about it. I let him think. Sometimes, not rushing a horse makes what you want to have happen, happen faster.

Good boy!

Hi, there.

Hmmm, I think that we have some grooming to do.

Now, we can do something interesting. The trails are no longer icy. Let’s go!

Rather early on after meeting Steve, it was clear that we were going to stay together. He already owned a home, and I was renting a tiny cottage a few towns over out in the country. We talked about me moving in with him. “Only one condition,” I said. “If I move in with you, I get a dog.” Looking back, I realize that I didn’t say “we get a dog.” It was I.

I found what was likely a husky/Australian shepherd mix at an animal shelter. Nimbus was under a year old, and she’d already been adopted twice and returned in haste by both households. She wasn’t the right dog for most people, but she was the perfect dog for me. She liked Steve well enough, and even, once we had them, the children (who dropped crackers from high chairs and so were okay.) But, she was my dog – that was clear to everyone who saw us together. Who can say what makes a heart dog? Nimbus was smart and funny and willful. She needed to have an interesting life, and so my life became more interesting. Nimbus was a catalyst for change, and it was all for the better. In search of a way to channel her energy, I discovered agility, and we made it up to the masters level. Because of agility, I found clicker training and Karen Pryor. Because of that, how I interact with all beings, humans and animals alike, took a more thoughtful, more positive turn.

A person is lucky to have one heart dog in a lifetime. When that one dies, there is heartbreak and you think that that dog can never be replaced. It’s true. Don’t even try. But, that doesn’t mean that you give up on animals in your life. I couldn’t. Without a dog, I didn’t go for walks. The space around me felt hugely empty without another being linked to me with eyes, ears, and that finely-tuned dog attention.

I went looking for a border collie mix. I found Lily. The “rescue organization” (I put that in quotation marks, as it turns out it was one person who did not know what she was talking about) claimed all sorts of things about Lily’s temperament, socializing and breeding. She was wrong on every count. But, Lily needed a person and I needed a dog. I put her into the crate in my minivan, and she was carsick all the way home. She never did get over hating car rides. Nimbus loved riding shotgun, Lily whines and cowers. From the start, Lily was reactive to movement. I had young boys in the house, and so we did much training to reduce the risk of dog bites. Lily resource guarded with snarls and teeth. Lily chased everything, including chickens. She was sure that threats were everywhere, that men who smelled of cigarette smoke should never step a foot near the house, and that all trucks should be barked at with the highest pitched, most painful to hear bark on the planet. She didn’t read other dog’s body language well, so often felt threatened, and so walks with her were not relaxing.

And yet, on this blog, I call her Good Dog Lily. Because she is. Because, she is very, very good at what she does. Lily has the best hearing of any dog I’ve ever known. (Truly! She can hear someone walking down the street from inside of the house, with the windows closed.) She tells me what vehicles are driving down the street (UPS calls for extreme vociferation.) There is even a bark if a car deigns to slow down by the driveway. She tells me who is at the door, and when the power goes out (she hates the beeping of the alarm.) Even now, when I wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing (because I can’t hear) what woke me, I look to Lily. If she is calm, I know that there is nothing to worry about. There’s something to be said for having an alert, worrier of a dog! She might not be my heart dog, but she is my dog, and she is always, always with me. I trust that when she has something to say, that I should pay attention. In my office, when her head picks up off of her bed, and she looks outside, so do I.

Lily turns eleven today. I have lived more than ten years with this complicated dog. Eleven is old. Her hind legs hitch a bit as she follows me up the stairs. Her muzzle is grey. But, from her purple chair inside the house, she still knows when hawks circle the sky, and when the UPS truck is in the driveway.

We humans are often focused inward, or on the computer screen, or at a task. Combine that with our dull senses, and we go through our days barely aware of the world beyond the extent of our physical reach. A dog like Lily, who is vigilant and hyper-aware, can change the very space that we live in. Some people find dogs like this demanding and impossible to live with. Not me. I am grateful that she clues me into this greater world.

It’s hard work, being Lily. She never takes a break.

But, today is your birthday, Lily. The sun is out! Let’s go for a walk!

(Start at the beginning of this saga of internal laying, here.)

After a full week of TLC, practical remedies and careful observation, Clementine was ready to go back to the nursing home flock. She was still skinny. Her keel bone was as sharp as a knife. She’d always have a bottom weighted down with solidified egg masses, so it was unlikely that she’d be able to hop onto a roost. But, a laundry room is no place for a hen. Besides, her people missed her.

But, inside of a nursing home is no place for a hen to live, either. Clementine had to rejoin her flock.

When a hen is removed from a group and time has passed, say, five days (which is an eternity in a chicken’s mind) the flock does not welcome her back. Never. Ever. They will chase. They will peck. They might draw blood, and sometimes even kill. When you first put a hen back and see the mayhem, your first reaction is to want to pick up and protect the hen that you recently spent so much effort nursing back to health. Don’t. Do not, in your misguided kindness, relegate the hen to a loner’s life. Do not use the flock’s behavior as an excuse to make a house chicken out of her! The returning hen can and must be reintegrated into the flock.

The first thing to do is to make sure that the coop and run are ready for her. Your coop should meet all of the basic criteria – plenty of space, sunlight (the hens need to see inside of the coop!), outside and inside roosts, etc. If the space is cramped, then a hen can be cornered and injured. Fill the feeder and waterer. If the ground is hard and frozen, provide sand for scratching.

When I brought Clementine back to the nursing home, the hens were surprised to see her. They had to think about it. They eyeballed her, and then looked away. Although Clementine was familiar to them, she was changed, too. Chickens don’t like change. Clementine moved differently than the pre-internal laying Clementine. Chickens are concerned about status, and as far as they were concerned, she was now the “new” hen and they needed to know how she fit in.

Clementine was wary, but she was also so happy to see dirt and things to peck. As I said, a laundry room is no place for a hen.

To determine status, there’s often chasing and pecking, which can get brutal if left unchecked. We gave the hens something interesting to divert their attention – a cucumber. For awhile, the cucumber was more interesting than the new hen.

When integrating a hen into an established flock, wait and observe. Behavior unfolds over time. The new hen will be attacked, usually by one chicken at a time. Gently discourage this by stepping between the two, or holding out your hand. Do not hit. Do not yell or chase. Simply interrupting the behavior will achieve what you want.

Because Clementine will always be the weak hen, the others will shunt her off to the fringes of their society. Honestly, that doesn’t matter to a hen. As long as she isn’t physically injured, she’s fine with her life of low status. I watched to make sure that Clem was capable of walking away from aggressive posturing. When another hen snaked a beak at her to peck, Clem stepped aside. I watched for about 15 minutes, occasionally intercepting dominance behavior. All seemed fine. I left.

About fifteen minutes after settling in at home I got a panicked phone call. Clementine was being attacked. LIsa had scooped her up and was carrying her around, protecting her, but she had to leave work. What to do? I drove back.

There was a bitter cold wind, and temperatures hovered at freezing. I took Clementine from Lisa, and put her back in with the hens. Lisa watched anxiously. The Delaware pecked at Clem’s head. Without intervention, this could lead to serious injury. But, too much intervention, and the hen would never be able to rejoin the flock. I stepped in and the Delaware turned away. I stayed for almost an hour. At one point, Clementine hid in a nesting box, (in this coop, there are three on the floor) with her tail to the group. This is a smart move, as they can’t hurt her when she’s in that position. She’s also boring to them like that, and they leave her alone. The first time that she got up to eat, they chased her back. I let this happen. I knew she’d be safe. About ten minutes later, Clementine got up to eat again and they left her alone. It was getting dark and the hens were going inside to roost. I could go home.

In the morning I got another call. Clementine was still being pecked at. It was a sunny day, and so I told them to put her in the fenced yard next to the run. Clem was given food and water. The flock could see her but not get at her. She could see them. Chickens get bored easily. Clementine was now not worthy of their attention. The flock had better things to do than to expend their energy posturing and threatening the yellow hen. They went about their business. At roosting time, Clementine was put back in with the hens.

The next morning, everyone got along.

The lesson here is that returning a hen to a flock is not a matter of simply putting the chicken back in with her old friends. Time away changes everything, and there will be behaviors that can upset you, and potentially harm the bird. BUT, the hens are not being mean. They are being chickens. The hen that you nursed back to health is also a chicken. You have to let them sort things out – while creating safe parameters for the behavior. Do not give up. Do not avoid reintegration because you don’t like seeing the chickens do what chickens do. That said, there is a difference between pecking and pummeling. Allow the squabbling but prevent bloodshed. Gentle dissuasion, a fence, and a cucumber is all that it takes.

It’s been two weeks since Clementine has been returned to her flock. I’ve checked in with her people who tell me that Clem has been accepted by the other chickens. There’s no pecking with contact. She’s able to eat and drink and go about her day. Clementine will always have compromised health, but for now, she leads a good chicken life of dust baths and scratching and breathing fresh air, while also doing the work that this hen is so good at.

UPDATE: Two weeks after Clementine returned to the nursing home, she passed away peacefully in her sleep. I was not surprised, but it was sad news. I did a necropsy, which confirmed my diagnosis of internal laying. It was the worst case that I have ever seen. Her body cavity was packed with masses of egg material. There was also a solidified egg with a soft shell stuck high up in the reproductive tract. It had obviously been there a long time. I believe that eggs formed, were blocked by that stuck egg from making their way down and out, and so instead backed up and fell into the body cavity. By the time Clementine showed signs of distress, this had all been going on for a long time. It’s amazing that she revived as she did. The necropsy also showed that she was eating fine, and that the rest of her systems were working, which illustrates how a chicken can continue to live  despite gross abnormalities inside of her. That means that it is our responsibility as their caretakers to make the right decisions. Clementine did revive. She was able to behave as a chicken does, eat, drink, and be part of a flock. If any of those things had changed before she passed away, it would have been a kindness to euthanize her. But, I’m glad that she had those last two weeks.

(This story starts here. Please read that post first.)

After a week of care, Clementine was ready to go back to the nursing home. And I was more than ready to have her out of my laundry room! The house is no place for a chicken. Despite removing the manure multiple times a day, the room stank of chicken. It wasn’t only for my benefit that I wanted her back outside. Clem was isolated from other birds – not good for a flock animal, no matter how calm she looked – and she couldn’t scratch in dirt or dust bathe. As soon as a hen can do those things, I believe in getting her right back outside! In fact, if the weather hadn’t been so brutally cold, I would have kept Clementine in housing outside while nursing her back to health.

Although I felt that Clementine was ready to go back to her flock, I also knew that she would never be 100% back to normal. My best guess as to what was wrong inside of her was this: Clem is an internal layer. When the yolk is released from the ovaries it is caught by the fallopian tubes. This is not a closed system. There’s a gap. As the eggs progress down the reproductive tract the whites surround the yolk. At some point, instead of continuing on into the shell gland, the jelly-like masses backed up to the fallopian tubes and dropped into the abdomen. There they solidified, weighting down her abdomen and changing her stance. Yolks are the perfect medium for bacteria to grow and so “internal layers” often get sick and die of infection.

By giving Clementine the antibiotics, I stopped the infection. Giving her an epsom salt soak helped as a general tonic, and also relaxed her systems so that she could produce manure and excrete any bits of eggs that might be stuck in her tract. Keeping her in a darkened room helped to stop egg production. All along she was able to eat and drink on her own. If she hadn’t been able to do that, I would have euthanized her. I do not believe in feeding gruel or using an eye dropper. If a chicken can’t eat, they have a good reason not to. (However, I will dose a hen with medicine if she is sick with a respiratory disease, and her eyes are gunked up so that she can’t see,) Pushing food into a chicken will cause suffering. So, I did what I could, but I did not go to extremes. I would not have kept Clementine on for another week. If she hadn’t incrementally looked better daily, I would have let her pass on.

I have no way of knowing if once back in with the flock and in the sunshine, if she will return to being an internal layer. Some hens do and some don’t. If Clementine returns to that penguin stance, I will know that her time is up. What I did know was that after a week she was moving like a chicken and eating and drinking just fine. Her manure was normal. Her eyes were bright. She had energy. She was still (and will always be) bottom heavy. Those solidified eggs aren’t going anywhere. She’ll likely never be able to roost. But, the coop at the nursing home has nesting boxes on the floor. She’ll be okay.

I gave her one more epsom salt soak just to make sure that she was clean and had one last boost. (I don’t overdo these! If your bird is sick and doesn’t respond to the first one, another won’t help. If your hen responds to one, that doesn’t mean that she needs a daily bath.)

I put Clementine in the crate and drove to the nursing home. The residents were very happy to see her.

However, I still had work to do. Clementine had been away from her flock for a week, which is an eternity as far as chickens are concerned. She still had health issues. She would need to be reintegrated. More about that in the next post.