The Ranchess Shall Not Feel Affection For the Livestock

I've made the transition from thinking of the baby chickens as pets to regarding them as livestock.

I used to burst into the spare room of our house with an excited squeal of, "Hi, babies! Hi babies!"

Now I have toned down that squeal. I am, after all, a rancher. Ranchess?

Hm. Is this the face of a woman without affection for her chickies? Doubtful.

So I more formally address them now as "chickies."

Nothing like a little chickie death and deformity to help harden my opinion about them. I know, wah-waaaah. I shouldn't even report it; this is a fun blog, isn't it?

But I am learning as I go (which was probably my first mistake--should've studied up a bit more beforehand), so maybe my tale of brooder bumbling will serve as a lesson to future chickie moms. I mean ranchesses.

Anyway, let's clear the air. I reported in the last post that we had 6 new little chicks. At that time, this was true. We started out with 7 though. One didn't make it through the first night. We learned later that she just didn't quite get enough air on the bottom of the chickie pile that night. Chickens make chickie piles when they are too cold.

So...turning off the A/C in the spare room and partially covering the tub with a towel is not enough to keep 2-week-old chicks alive. Lesson learned. We added the customary red heat lamp to their home and everyone had a good, warm, non-suffocating second night.

I began to lose my enthusiasm for naming them. Glendora and Peepsie had already stolen my heart and earned very affectionate names. But after that first night, I though that if they were going to drop like flies then I wasn't too keen on naming the rest.

The chicken who shall remain nameless

Good thing I waited. The other day I noticed one of the little black ones couldn't seem to stand up. "Great," I thought, "another goner." I watched her become more and more still as the day went on. I read more about chickens, discovering they're each supposed to have 2 square feet of space. EACH!

Holy crap, I wasn't giving them enough room to run and frolic! In mother hen desperation, I tore apart some huge moving boxes I'd saved last October and duct taped them together, creating a kind of chickie coliseum.

Brilliantly, I did all of this outdoors and subsequently had to squish it to get it through the doorway and back inside to the Chickie Room.

All 6 chicks got transferred to the coliseum. The little black one was now laying on her side. Was she ever going to croak? It didn't seem right to let all the other chicks run over her like they were doing, but I hated to separate her, too. Chickies make the saddest little chirp when they're by themselves.

Back to the trusty interwebs. Oh my goodness, my chickie had splayed legs. She was doing the splits and couldn't hold herself up! I was sad for her, but figured she'd be gone by the next day. I went to bed that night trying to prepare myself for another totally-still little fluffball in the morning.

But there wasn't one. God love her, she was laying on her side and still breathing the next morning. I picked her up, and she promptly fell over into the food dispenser...where she ravenously began eating!

Oh, man, thanks a lot little fluffball. Now I really cared. I picked her up and put her little beak in the water, and she drank. She wanted to live!

The interwebs, upon further reading, gave a recommendation for splayed-leg chickies. You can bandage them together to train them to stand up straight again.

Internet photo. I was too distraught to take my own.

They also informed me that young chicks get splayed legs from walking on slippery surfaces too much while they're developing. Like...the newspaper we had lined their brooder with underneath the pine shavings. Oh my god, I caused my chickens to be deformed! And while applying the tiny, trimmed-up bandage to her legs, I realized with horror that both Glendora and Peepsie were starting to fall down too.

No no no, not my favorites! No! Anxiously I taped their legs too and transferred everyone back to the bin, which I lined with paper towels underneath the shavings.

The next few days were...interesting. The little black one continued to eat and drink when I brought her to food and water, but she wouldn't walk. I'd find her sprawled forward, with her bandaged legs sticking straight out behind her like an old lady who fell down.

Peepsie would only shuffle backwards, refusing nourishment, while chirping loudly to indicate how much she didn't like the situation. Glendora pecked at her bandages so much that I cut them off immediately. I put Glendora and the 3 healthy chicks into their own bin and the other 2 into the "infirmary" bin.

Glendora. Tough, ornery, and bossy. 

Glendora quickly got up to speed with the 3 healthy chicks, but the other 2 in the sick ward continued on their sad little path. I continued cleaning their cage when I cleaned the others', though they were hardly eating or drinking enough to make any subsequent mess.

I decided to quit helping them find food and water and just see how things went. I cut both their bandages off after 3 days, and figured I'd let Natural Selection do the rest.

But lo and behold, Peepsie began walking--forwards! It wasn't a very good walk though; she was standing on curled-up toes and with little balance. But at least it wasn't backwards. The little black one actually stood up, too.

Well. This was progress.

Peepsie and a couple of chicken butts. Classy.

And then one morning when I lifted the towel from the top of the bin, they both stood up, chirped, and walked over to get food. Normally, like normal chickens. No monkey knuckle-walking. Amazing. I could have sworn they were going to croak. My heart swelled a little.

Okay, so maybe I didn't make the transition. Those cute little chirpers are still a little more than livestock to me. I've worked from home twice now just to be nearer to my little poultry physical therapy patients, and I delight in seeing them run around their bins and be just...crazy little chickies.

Until one of them flew up and out of the bin. She perched briefly on the side, looking out at the rest of the room as if contemplating a real and total escape. And although I was the human in this situation, I found myself squawking and flapping my arms as I attempted to corral her back in her bin.

I think it might be time to move these little ladies outdoors before they begin a full-on chickie brooder exodus.