The turkey was a chicken. Marky turned and padded casually back to his yard and the turkey continued on his way.
Marky was doing his job so well that I felt confident letting him watch over the girls all by himself as they free-ranged for short periods. One of those afternoons I let the girls out to roam the yard under Marky’s watchful eye, then I went back inside to take the kettle off the stove. I was overcaffeinated and highly stressed that day because of an illustration deadline, and once I’d poured my umpteenth cup of coffee I forgot completely about the chickens. I rushed back up to the studio to finish my project. As I worked, I lost all track of time. Dinnertime came and went. The sun sank behind the trees. I never so much as looked up from the drawing board until I heard a quiet voice float through the open window:
“Brrrbit?” It was a chicken voice. Unmistakably Lucy’s. “Ooooh. Rrrbrt,” she moaned.
Aw. A sweet sound from the henhouse, I thought. Then it registered that the voice wasn’t coming from the henhouse. It was right under my window. I put down my pens and went downstairs to investigate. When I flipped on the porch light and peered through the screen door, there stood Marky and Lucy. They were waiting patiently, side by side at the back door, for me to let them in. Far off in the darkness, barely illuminated by the porch light, I saw Lil’White and Hatsy huddled together at the closed coop door.
An hour earlier, when the sun had begun to set, all three hens had no doubt headed for the coop to get safely inside before nightfall. This is just what chickens do. Chickens tend to be very fearful of the dark, as they have almost no night vision. Unable to get into the locked coop, Lucy had left her panic-stricken friends and set off across the yard alone under the darkening sky to let me know it was bedtime.
That took thought. Maybe even a whole string of thoughts. And determination. And perhaps even reasoning. It was my first real glimpse into the tiny brain of a chicken, and I was profoundly impressed.
“Rrrrr bip,” said Lucy.
How could I have left my flock out in the dark? A slipup like this could mean death to the girls. Raccoons, foxes, owls—so many predators come out at dusk. What a terrible chicken mom I was.
I scooped Lucy up in a football hold and carried her back to her flock while Marky trotted behind. I opened the coop, offered the girls my sincerest apologies, and planted them safely on their roost.
The next day I found an old roll of garden fencing and fashioned a run beside the coop. That way, the girls could be out, with access to their coop, and I could be forgetful without risking their lives.
I also used some of the fencing to make a couple of these handy chicken cages, to throw over the girls while they were out and about in case I needed to dash inside for a moment and then forgot the chickens for hours. Again.
That summer I spent more time in the garden than I ever had. And when I started digging, the chickens came running. Grubs were their goal. Grubs drove them mad.
Whenever I set out to do a bit of gardening, I ended up grub hunting with the ladies all afternoon.
Patricia was right: these living lawn ornaments were fun and just about trouble-free. That summer with my girls brought more amusement and laughter to the backyard than I had ever hoped. The garden never looked better, Marky was thrilled that I was always outdoors, and Danny often joined me outside on weekend mornings for coffee with the girls. We had fresh eggs in the fridge and a healthy, happy flock out back.
Then, one morning in July, Lucy limped.
9
Lucy Limps
The problem seemed to be with her left foot. I guessed that she had just stepped on a splinter and it would work itself out on its own, but the next day she was still limping. Sarah asked me to call a vet, but I suggested we do our own examination. We picked Lucy up and gently flipped her over to see what we could see. But we couldn’t find anything wrong with her toes or her legs.
The next day Lucy could barely walk, and she looked terrible. The crimson coloring in her face had turned gray, and for some reason her comb was curling over. While yesterday Sarah had been worried, today she was begging me to call a vet. But how could I? Lucy was a chicken. Marky’s vet would laugh at me if I walked in carrying a chicken. You don’t take a chicken to the vet the same way you don’t take a goldfish to the vet. This was awful. I didn’t know what to do. I told Sarah we’d keep an eye on Lucy and think about it.
By the afternoon, Lucy couldn’t even sit up without balancing herself on her wings. Sarah was beside herself. I called Patricia to see if she knew what to do for Lucy. Patricia told me about Rosario, a farm animal vet who happened to live just up the road from us. I called Rosario right away, and despite it being dinnertime, she told me to bring Lucy on over. Sarah found a cardboard box, we tucked Lucy inside, and we hopped into the car.
Rosario met us out in her driveway. She lifted Lucy gently from the box and gave her a little exam on the front lawn. Lucy’s wings hung low, her legs and feet were weak. Rosario explained that Lucy’s problem was neurological, that it was possibly Marek’s disease. There was nothing she could do for Lucy.
Marek’s is a virus that affects young chickens and other barnyard fowl and can be fatal. It’s an airborne virus. If one chicken comes down with the disease, then it’s likely that the entire flock has been exposed to it. But since Hatsy and Lil’White were showing no signs of illness, they probably had a natural immunity. Rosario assured me that my family and Marky were in no danger—it’s a bird disease and doesn’t transfer to mammals.
To make us feel better, Rosario fed Lucy a syringe of garlic. She said it would help boost her immune system, and she handed me a few doses to take home. But she told us that all we could really do for Lucy was wait and watch, and that her odds were not good.
Back at home, since it was way past dinnertime, I automatically switched out of farmer mode and into mother mode. The box o’ chicken was brought into the house and stuffed into the corner behind the kitchen table. Sarah started in on her homework while I set about cooking dinner.
Later in the evening as we were clearing away the dinner dishes, Sarah and I heard a soft voice.
We’d totally forgotten about Lucy. Sarah crawled into the corner and pulled out the box. We spread a red dish towel on the floor and arranged our beautiful sick chicken in the middle of it.
Lucy bupped again.
Sarah and I bupped too.
“Oooh,” said Lucy.
Danny came home from work and sat down with us. We talked about Lucy’s disease and prepared ourselves for the probability that she would not survive. We spent the rest of the evening sitting with her on the kitchen floor.
Lucy dozed as we chatted. Her face was so gray. She tipped to the left and used her wing to keep from toppling over. She quietly panted, with her beak open to cool her throat. Sarah fed her a couple of raisins and gave her a good-night pat, and we tucked our pretty hen into her cardboard box for the night.
The next morning, Sarah and I were up at the same time. I had hoped to check on Lucy first, alone, but Sarah was right there with me. On our way to the kitchen I reminded her that Lucy might not be with us anymore. I tried to slow Sarah down, but she scooted herself under the table and peeked cautiously over the edge of the box.
“Lucy?” Sarah whispered.
“Rrrrb,” Lucy said. She wasn’t quite dead yet.
We lifted her out of the box and placed her on a towel. Sarah fed her, and then Lucy preened and slept.
Marky was very cordial with Lucy in his kitchen. He kept his distance, only stretching his neck to give her a little sniff. I don’t know if he could sense that she was ill, or if he just wasn’t much interested in a chicken who didn’t move.
It was a beautiful late-summer morning, and when I put Hatsy and Lil’White into the chicken tractor for some grass and sunshine, I placed Lucy in with them. She lay on the cool lawn with bowls of food and water within reach, and seemed comfortable with her friends.
I checked on her from time to time durin
g the day, bringing pieces of cold fruit and refilling her water bowl. That evening I put Hatsy and Lil’White back in the coop, but since Lucy couldn’t walk or sit or roost, I had no choice but to bring her back into the house. I sat down on the kitchen floor with Lucy on my lap, pried open her beak, and squirted one of Rosario’s syringes into her mouth. She shook her head and spattered us both with essence of garlic.
Then I helped her get comfortable on the red dish towel and she watched me prepare dinner.
“Herrrbert,” said Lucy.
I told her what I was cooking.
“oooOOOooh,” she said.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Bup,” said Lucy.
The next day it was raining, so Lucy stayed indoors with me. I set her up with food and water, and I dug up one of the tiny training roosts I had built for the girls when they were chicks.
Lucy seemed more comfortable when she had something to wrap her toes around. She couldn’t stand up, but she could balance on the roost, and since it was only a few inches off the ground, she wouldn’t hurt herself if she tipped over. This kept her from sitting in her poo, too. With a newspaper on the floor under the perch, we had a pretty tidy setup.
Days passed. Lucy lived.
She spent a lot of time sleeping.
When she was awake, she kept me company in the kitchen. I moved my art supplies down from the studio to the kitchen table so we could hang out together while I worked.
Lucy did make lovely company.
She also looked quite stunning on the white futon.
In the afternoons, she and Sarah watched television together. We were kind of having fun with our house chicken. She was friendly, she was polite, and she never moved from wherever we placed her.
But as much as we enjoyed her company, I could see that Lucy missed her flock. I saw her perk up when their voices floated in through the open window.
She could see them from the futon, and she watched them.
So on nice days, I carried Lucy out to spend time with Hatsy and Lil’White.
Lucy’s preferred mode of transportation: Sarah’s Easter basket. I kept the three ladies together in the tractor instead of allowing them to free-range around the yard, so Lucy wouldn’t be left all alone if the other two wandered.
When she was out there with her friends, Lucy sat a little taller and tried a little harder to look like a healthy bird.
Sometimes she managed to stand for a moment or two.
When I brought Lucy out, Hatsy was always waiting to greet her friend. Then the two of them would get to work picking clover together.
Lil’White would recede to the far end of the tractor, and Lucy would fit herself back into second place in the pecking order for the day.
While I worked on my illustrations, I kept a close eye on things through the kitchen window. Lucy tended to scoot backward away from the food and water, so from time to time I went out to check on her and rearrange things so she could reach what she needed.
On my way back to the kitchen, Marky greeted me and invited me to play, so I did. Then the garden beckoned me to weed it, and in no time at all the day was over and I had gotten a nice tan.
When deadlines loomed, however, I stayed on task. One such day, after hours spent hunched over my laptop, I lifted my head and stretched. Out in the tractor I saw Lil’White pecking around, but Hatsy was sitting down beside Lucy. She wasn’t digging or grub hunting. She wasn’t moving. This was very odd. Hatsy never, ever stopped moving. She was in perpetual motion from dawn to dusk. My immediate thought: Hatsy had come down with Marek’s.
I went to take a closer look. Hatsy was still down as I approached the tractor. But when I got closer, my little orange dynamo popped to her feet and dashed over to say “hello!” She was fine. She had been sitting on the grass only to keep her friend Lucy company.
I made up my mind at that moment that Lucy should no longer be treated as a house chicken. She was important to her flock, and she should be with them as often as possible.
I removed Lucy’s box from the kitchen and set up a new home for her in Marky’s old dog crate on the screened porch. Each day she would spend as much time as possible with the girls, rain or shine, and she would spend nights safely outside. She took to her new home just fine. On the porch, Lucy enjoyed cool breezes and the sounds of her friends from across the yard. After a couple of weeks, she started laying eggs again. That was certainly a good sign, but it was about the only one. Her legs were still very weak, and her toes were stiff and bent. A bit of crimson coloring had returned to her face and comb, but she was still sleeping more than she was awake.
Out on the porch on warm summer evenings, Lucy perched on my knee and joined Danny and me in some pleasant conversations. But with autumn around the corner, I began to wonder what I was going to do with her. Would she ever be able to move back in with the flock? Was I destined to care for a paralyzed chicken indefinitely?
I found myself sketching tiny wheelchairs.
10
Change in Pecking Order
Now I could see why three or more chickens constitute a flock. When the three girls were together in the tractor, there were lively interactions and discussions, plenty of activity, and a hint of conflict to make it all interesting. When one gal discovered a grub, someone else surely came running. A mosquito flitted past, and again a flurry of activity followed.
Lucy’s absence from the coop left a big hole. When Hatsy and Lil’White were together, they seemed to be just hanging out. The two carried on fine in the coop, but it was as if they were living in slow motion.
I continued to take Lucy out to be with the girls every day so that they could be a flock for at least a couple of hours. Once she was placed in the tractor, things bustled again. Lil’White and Hatsy busied themselves. And even though Lucy didn’t move far from where I put her, it seemed that each day she sat a little taller in the grass.
In August, the opportunity arose for our family to go to southern Spain.
Danny and Sarah and I had never taken a vacation abroad together, and we were very excited. I arranged for Marky to stay with friends. Sarah’s Betta fish, Betsey, moved in with the neighbors. My chickens—well, that would be tough. How could I ask anyone to care for a paralyzed chicken? Hatsy and Lil’White could pretty much manage for themselves in the coop, but Lucy needed quite a bit of attention. Her food and water had to be kept fresh and within her reach. Poops had to be scooped from her crate, and her eggs had to be collected. I made a couple of phone calls and was surprised and flattered when two wonderful friends stepped right up to help.
My friend Beth loved my girls. She had come over to our house to play with them when they were wee fluffy nubbins, and she happened to have a flock of her own, of sorts.
Beth had four ducklings swimming around in a wading pool in her backyard. She loved animals of all kinds and was very happy to help out with Lucy’s care.
Our neighbor Trish, who is a nurse, a massage therapist, and a whole list of other things, also agreed to help out. I showed Beth and Trish the ropes and organized a schedule for them, and then I took off for Spain with my family.
I’d like to say that I didn’t worry about my Lucy during that vacation, but at best I tried not to obsess about her. If she didn’t survive my absence, well … I surely had done the best I could for her.
Ten days later, back in the States, back in Upton, back on the back porch, I greeted Lucy with a big warm smile. And Lucy stood up to greet me.
She stood right up!
I opened the cage and she lunged awkwardly toward my arms. I lifted her and carried her to the lawn. As soon as her feet touched the earth, Lucy stood and took a few pained steps. Then she looked up and so did I, to see Trish striding up the path from our driveway. Trish planted herself on the grass beside us and told me how much she’d enjoyed spending time with Lucy. She explained that twice a day she had taken Lucy out of her cage for chicken therapy, holding her up, helping to stretch her legs.
While the therapy and Lucy’s improvement were thrilling to me, I was even more stunned to hear from Trish how she and Lucy had bonded. This was a solid reassurance that I was in fact not totally insane.
I knew that I had fallen in love with a chicken. Now I knew I wasn’t the only one who had.
Out in the coop, Hatsy and Lil’White seemed happy and well cared for, too. Later that day we retrieved Marky from our friends’ house and Sarah’s fish from our neighbors across the street, and we all settled comfortably back together.
The next morning when I opened up the coop, Hatsy and Lil’White tore out the door like a pair of escaping convicts. All memories of their ten tedious days in lockdown evaporated, and they set to work ripping up the lawn. I rounded them up and placed them in the tractor on a cool patch of overgrown grass.
Once Upon a Flock Page 4
