Windwalker79
Chirping
Farm life doesn’t ask for perfect weather — it just keeps going. And sometimes, it throws you a mess that tests your heart more than your hands.
We’d had nonstop rain for days. The whole property was soaked, and the chicken run had turned into a sloppy swamp of red clay mud, thick enough to pull your boots off. Water was pooling everywhere. It was chaos.
That’s when I saw her.
Out in the run, barely visible through the mud and mess, was my little white bantam Silkie — trampled, caked in red clay, soaked to the bone, and completely motionless. I honestly thought she was gone.
But something in her little body was still fighting.
I picked her up — cold, wet, and limp — and rushed her inside. I gently washed the mud off, one handful at a time, careful not to shock her system. Then I wrapped her in a towel and pulled out the blow dryer, giving her the warmest air and the gentlest care I could. It took time… but little by little, she started to come back to life.
I set her up in a file box lined with towels under a soft heat lamp. That box became her safe haven for a week — food, water, quiet, and recovery. I checked on her constantly, and every day, she looked a little stronger.
And one day, she stood up on her own, fluffed up her feathers, and let out the tiniest squawk like,
"Alright, I’m done hiding. Let me go home."
I brought her back out to the flock, and she strutted out like a survivor — a muddy little miracle.
She’s still with us today. Still tiny. Still fluffy. But now, battle-tested.
We’d had nonstop rain for days. The whole property was soaked, and the chicken run had turned into a sloppy swamp of red clay mud, thick enough to pull your boots off. Water was pooling everywhere. It was chaos.
That’s when I saw her.
Out in the run, barely visible through the mud and mess, was my little white bantam Silkie — trampled, caked in red clay, soaked to the bone, and completely motionless. I honestly thought she was gone.
But something in her little body was still fighting.
I picked her up — cold, wet, and limp — and rushed her inside. I gently washed the mud off, one handful at a time, careful not to shock her system. Then I wrapped her in a towel and pulled out the blow dryer, giving her the warmest air and the gentlest care I could. It took time… but little by little, she started to come back to life.
I set her up in a file box lined with towels under a soft heat lamp. That box became her safe haven for a week — food, water, quiet, and recovery. I checked on her constantly, and every day, she looked a little stronger.
And one day, she stood up on her own, fluffed up her feathers, and let out the tiniest squawk like,
"Alright, I’m done hiding. Let me go home."
I brought her back out to the flock, and she strutted out like a survivor — a muddy little miracle.
She’s still with us today. Still tiny. Still fluffy. But now, battle-tested.
