Our white Brahma chicken, Henrietta Universe, has never been our most prolific layer. So it took us a few days to realize she hadn’t given us an egg in far too long.
I texted Rob, “Henrietta looks pale. I don’t think she feels good.”
“What?! How can a chicken look pale?” he replied.
Good point. Still, something wasn’t right. She spent most of her time laying down, not chasing bugs or digging dirt with her girls. Her tail quivered and pointed down. Her eyes were half closed and, yes, she was pale; her comb was a sickly pink instead of bright red. Also, no egg.
I started searching the online chicken groups (yes, there are such things) for answers. In my unprofessional opinion, our chicken was egg bound. Either an egg was stuck, or had broken internally. Neither scenario seemed likely to end well. There are a wide variety of suggested home remedies out there. I decided to go for the least, ummm, invasive first. So she dined on plain yogurt (for the beneficial bacteria), water laced with olive oil (to keep things well lubricated), liquid calcium (to strengthen shells), fresh greens, and no more people food (all the chickens have gotten used to kid-leftovers, which may have made them a bit plump, bogging down the egg-making machine). A more spoiled bunch of birds I never did see.
And still, no egg. In fact, the only thing coming out of her at all was something that looked like yolk. Gross. And not a good sign. Every day when I picked up the kids from school they asked, “Is Henrietta dead? When she dies, can we get two silkies?”
So I called my dad, who was in charge of the axe when it came to my childhood backyard flock. (For the record, it’s true that chickens run around like chickens with their heads cut off when their heads are actually cut off.)
“Egg bound?” he laughed. ”I never heard of such a thing. I guess when one of our chickens got sick we didn’t really notice until they died. Then they went in the pot.”
Hmm… farm life in Idaho.
Well, it looked like the next step would have to be the invasive one. Gathering latex gloves, olive oil, and my knowledge gleaned from a childhood spent watching “All Creatures Great and Small”, I headed to the chicken run. My assistant, Violet, held the patient while I… well… let’s just say I checked to see if I could feel the offending egg. (shudder)
Nothing.
A couple days later and the prospects seemed grim. There was one last thing I could try, according to my sources. But it seemed ridiculous. I didn’t think it could be done. Yet watching the poor thing suffer while we ate dinner on the porch, Rob said he was willing to give it a try.
IKEA never imagined their Trofast collection could be used to soak a chicken, but that is what we did. Rob dutifully held that bird down in hot water for 20 minutes.
He passed the time by watching bluegrass on his laptop. Maybe it was the music, or the warm hindquarters, or that she was just so sick, but the squawking and flapping I envisioned never happened. She even seemed disappointed when her jacuzzi was over. We promptly wrapped her in a towel and put her in Violet’s lap where she seemed to fall asleep.
After she stopped dripping we put her in the recycling bin with a warm lamp.
As night approached I realized she was still pretty damp, so I grabbed the blow dryer.
Yes. I did. And I don’t think I’m wrong in saying she loved it. LOVED. IT. She stood completely still, closing her eyes, letting me lift her wings and maneuver her around to get all the fuzzy bits.
This is not something I ever thought I would do. Clearly. Spoiled? Apparently so. Although I am not sure I would take my chickens to the vet… so what does that say about me?
Well, all that spa treatment was supposed to relax the bird and help the inner traffic jam ease up. We did not see any evidence of that happening and were surprised she survived the night. And the next. And the next. Actually, each day she seemed a bit better. Walking gingerly, to be sure, but peppy.
Yesterday we found this in the laying box.
It’s the biggest egg she has ever laid. So it looks like the drama is over for now. Chicken Spa closed. Henrietta Universe is feeling herself again, which is something like this:
Last fall marked 10 years that we have lived in Austin. Ten. Years. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere else in my life. If you had told me in high school that I would end up in Texas I would have laughed. A lot.
We rolled into town for the first time on November 1st, 2001, the day after a tornado struck south Austin. That didn’t bother us much. We had just flown into New York after three years in Korea. August 23th, 2001. A couple weeks later everything changed. The United States was oddly foreign and the world seemed fragile, waiting for the next disaster, man-made or not. So Austin seemed as good a place as any. There was music and warm weather and all of our belongings still fit into the back of our station wagon, a green Ford called Nok-cha.
Before long we were doing the jobs-marriage-house routine. I was particularly interested in having a yard. Living in apartments for 9 years had given me a craving to dig around in dirt and grow things. So there we were, working, diy-ing, mowing, growing babies, playing music, making friends. Life stuff.
And still, after 10 years I can’t get it out of my head that this place is temporary. I always feel a vague disbelief that I don’t see mountains on the horizon; that the highest point for hundreds of miles is a skyscraper; that all the plants and animals are pointy and/or poison; that strip-malls block the scenery; that everything looks the same; that the thought of summer brings dread instead of excitement. Right now the mountain laurels and wildflowers are blooming. I admire them with a sense of panic at the impending crush of heat, just as I anxiously enjoyed the fall colors before being buried in snow when I lived in upstate New York. After last summer, the feeling that Austin is just a phase in my life has been more urgent.
I guess there are always trade-offs. I’ve been talking to a recent California transplant. The weather there is perfect. The scenery is beautiful. But the word she uses to describe California is “competitive”. Competitive for money, land, schools, jobs, the right clothes, the right look, the right kid activities, the right people. In Austin, she feels a vague disbelief that she can take her kids to swim for free; that such a variety of people mingle so easily; that she can leave the house without make-up. Another friend of mine from Brooklyn is equally amazed that she can wear flip-flops to Fashion Week; that no one bats an eye at her filthy batman-costume-wearing kid; that people are truly friendly and helpful.
Austin somehow feels like a small town with big city stuff to do. Sure the traffic sucks, the rest of the state doesn’t think too much of us, and the kids say the Texas pledge every morning at school. Weird. But I like this kind of weird. Rob loves his job, the kids love their school, the cost of living could be so much worse. And the weather? Well, every place has its pros and cons. Maybe Austin is a phase, but it could be a long one. And most of the time I’m enjoying it.
