I shall tell you the story of Henny Penny and the bath.
When I was a wee youngster my aunt gave my 2 sisters and I a pet chicken of our very own. I had a full sized cream colored hen named Penelope and my two sisters had two little red banty chickens, a hen, Henny Penny, and a rooster, Road Runner.
Now we loved our chickens and would take them with us everywhere when we went to play and Penelope grew quite fond of clinging to the handlebars of my bike as I sped down the country roads. We would keep them clean and wash their feet when they would come in the house to watch tv in the evenings and generally treated them as pets and not really as chickens.
One day Henny Penny apparently got dirty. My littlest sister knew that when the dogs got dirty we would bathe them and so she decided that Henny Penny needed a bath. So she filled the wheelbarrow with the hose and grabbed Dawn dishwashing liquid and proceeded to bathe Henny Penny.
Henny Penny was not at all keen on this but being the sweet chicken that she was she simply cackled and fussed at my sister. Meanwhile the Dawn was stripping off any oil on the chicken's feathers and the water was seeping in and soon Henny Penny was sinking like a waterlogged feather duster. Having finished with Henny's cleaning my sister went to take Henny out of the water but the chicken was so waterlogged and heavy that my sister was unable to pick her up. She came to get me and my dad to help her and the sight that greeted us was this poor little hen completely soaked through, her head sticking up like the periscope on a submarine while her body sank to the bottom. Have you ever washed a feather pillow?
Dad and I took poor Henny Penny and raised her up from her bathwater and wrung her out as best we could but still she was waterlogged and heavy. So heavy that the poor hen couldn't even stand up on her own. So with many towels we sat in the sun and dried, and dried, and fluffed, and dried, and squeezed (gently mind you), until finally Henny could stand on her own. She tried to ruffle her feathers indignantly and yet they were still too wet. She finally settled at the end of the sidewalk in the sun, shivering slightly and preened as best she could, flinging water from her feathers. It took most of the day but finally she was somewhat dry and we brought her in and finished off with the hair dryer.
To this day my sister always remembers that chickens should never have baths. Especially with Dawn dishwashing liquid.