How to bathe a rooster, the condensed version.
Condensed instructions, that is. Although I have to say, Henry is a condensed version of his former rooster self with half of those darned feathers snipped off.
Okay, so get a tub, preferably not the one your husband uses for his vintage snapback hat collection. But if it's the perfect size to float a rooster with enough room for his head to stick out so he can watch his hens watching him, it'll do.
That's what I used.
Boil a stew pot 3/4 full of water and add three cups of epsom salt. I always tend to overdo things, so I wouldn't be surprised if you were to tell me I only needed a teaspoon.
I boiled the water for five minutes to purify it, but I'm not sure that was necessary. It's one of those "It can't hurt, so why not" things, and maybe it even helps.
But you kind of undo the water purification when you cut it with cold water direct from the tap.
Anyhoo, moving on.
Place the tub on a towel in the rooster recovery room and nudge it up close to the sliding glass door. A spare towel is a really good idea because unexpected things can happen when you're floating a rooster in a tub.
Also keep a washcloth handy. Don't expect your injured rooster to start swimming around in there and cleaning all those honey soaked feathers by himself.
And now it's time to float a rooster.
I knew from the summer dunkings I did for the chickens in response to our extreme heat that chickens float. They have feathers, and anything with feathers supposedly floats, but do they float head upright, or do they tip and float head upside down. One's good, one is not.
Hen Pen Jem bathes her birds with the water level up to the vent. The vent is the exit hatch for those who, like me, are new to chickening and are still learning the various pieces and parts of chicken anatomy. So that's how full I filled the tub.
Then I gently lifted Henry up with his wings held to his sides so he couldn't wiggle, and I set him down in the tub, unsure of how this was going to go.
It went marvelously well, except for that one sudden splash that threw a bunch of chicken saturated water into my mouth.
Henry's legs were the focus of the epsom salt bath. Really it was intended as a soak, not an actual bath. But as he half floated, half stood there, working his muscles to maintain his floaty balance, which was an unexpected bonus, it occurred to me that people really do bathe their chickens, and Henry was a sticky mess.
So I grabbed the washcloth and carefully sloshed water through his feathers. The undercarriage wounds were healing nicely, and I felt they'd benefit from the epsom salt, but when water splashed on some of his more serious wounds, I figured why not.
Note: If your fella has a deep puncture wound, cover it with a folded square of plastic wrap and secure it in place with honey. But keep in mind that honey is water soluble, and also remember that the plastic wrap isn't zip locked to his skin; water can seep underneath if you're not careful.
The more I soaked his feathers and flooded his lower region with water, the more I saw chicken debris float off his tattered body and into the tub. In just a quick minute the water was honey colored and full of food crumbs, soft tufts of snipped feathers, and other unidentifiables.
And, yes, I really did get a thorough splashing in the mouth of Henry soaked water. It was a delightful experience. I no longer sleep in a bed at night; I roost.
There isn't much more to it than that. The non-condensed version would involve more words, but why read the full version of Pride and Prejudice when you can read the Cliff Notes and be done with it!
Something I didn't expect, consider, think about, or otherwise ponder, was the increased buoyancy because of the salt. It seemed to really make a difference and help Henry engage his muscles without comprising his safety. Aside from one quick splash with his wings, he was totally blissed out in that tub and relaxed.
When Henry's hens came up to the glass door and saw his head sticking out of the tub, they pecked on the door and chirped and squawked for a bit, and then they found the bowl of crushed eggshells I'd left for them on the deck and flew-walk to it in a frenzy and forgot about the floating rooster.
The effects of the bath were pretty apparent to me. Henry was more relaxed than I've seen him since the coyote attack ten or so days ago. He was sparkly clean, and his wounds were flushed out and looking better than ever. I ended up saturating every last bit of him with the epsom salt water, except for the worst wound up top. He has two other wounds that are quite large and deep, but the honey has done wonders healing them, and they responded wonderfully well to the bath.
Today I made a fresh batch of salt water, but this time I put Henry in his sling and soaked both legs in a bowl. It was just deep enough to thoroughly cover the open sores on his lame leg. For the good leg I'm still using a comfrey poultice, which has significantly lessened the redness along the side of that leg and on his elbow.
The other day I was heartsick when I found those gangrene-looking wounds on Henry's lame leg. It seemed sudden, like one day there was redness and heat and mounded sores, and the next the sores had opened and changed to a greenish gray color.
I've done a fair amount of reading on gangrene in chickens, and as some of you have mentioned, it's possible he may have it in that leg. But I'm not seeing any changes for the worse, not yet anyway, and he's feistier today and showing me more of his roostery self.
So once again the danged rooster lives.
But I'm feeling quite attuned to the reality of how internal infections can advance. There's peace in confronting that and ...
Holy honeyed feathers, folks, I now bring to you a wonderful and sudden and unexpected interruption, like from the deck just outside Henry's recovery room!!
He hasn't crowed since the coyote attack, and no mad clucking. When one of his hens lays an egg or is unhappy about something and mad clucks, Henry does sympathy mad clucking. Well, guess what?
A hen just laid an egg and then mad clucked her way over to the deck, and from the depths of the recovery room I heard a sympathy mad cluck in show of support for her.
Henry mad clucked!
Wow, no chicken henchman tonight. That rooster Henry will live to see another day.
And on that chipper note I'm going to eat some chocolate and sip a chai, and so I bid you adieu.
Until next time, folks.
I've been following along - you have been doing well and giving Henry the best care possible. 
