Shadrach's Ex Battery and Rescued chickens thread.

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Molpet said:
I usually wait too long for dogs going to the vet to be put down. A a kid we shot the dogs and horses instead of the vet. The first dog I took to the vet as an adult I had to carry him in a sling and harness since he could no longer walk. He was 190lbs and the tech helped when I got him to the door. I just couldn't shoot him and I thought it would be easier on me. It wasn't , I was a blubbery hot mess, I waited 10 years until my next dog. Again I waited too long and had to get help getting him in. He was only 120lbs. I was a hot mess again.
BTW it was $350 and $400 for the vet to dispatch and cremate. I can understand why parents dispatched for the price of a bullet. We raised, showed and shipped champion St Bernards in the 60s and early 70s. Ever time I try to dig in an out of the way spot, I find its occupied. 4 generations of my family burring cow, horses and pets.
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I know, it's so hard on the heart. $400, man, that's expensive. It's only $25 here, but that's just for the injection. So we had to drive an hour back home with poor dead Suki in the backseat to bury her. We have five other dogs, including Suki's brother and sister and her mama Coco. Coco somehow knew Suki was dead, she just turned away. Her siblings Dolly and Georgie kept trying to get inside the truck to find Suki. So I ran down to the house to get some shovels and some food to distract Dolly and Georgie while my partner Juan and I dug the hole. All while trying to keep from sobbing. Juan got inside the hole to give her a final hug. It was so hard.

Until I moved here seven years ago, I was a city person. Which is hard in different ways, the noise, the constant hustle. But realize how convenience is built into that life now, if you can pay for it.

I've buried six chickens in the orchard on the edge of the forest. I plant something there now each time to mark the spot. In honor of the deceased, but also so I don't dig there...

IMG_20230323_075423.jpg


Butchie chilling with the dog pack
 
RoyalChick said:
My Dad in particular taught me a lot about the mindset of someone approaching death and how joy can be found in small things.
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Over three years ago, a few weeks after we bought our first group of chickens, I started to figure out just how sick they all were. Cleo had severe bumblefoot in both feet and was hobbling -- at not even a year old -- along with bronchitis. One of the pullets had already turned blue and dropped dead in the first week I became a chicken keeper. Of course the most practical thing would have been to "cull" them all (why can't people just say "kill" if that what they mean) and start over. But I felt obligated to at least try to do something for them. I've always been a sucker for a hard luck story. Just the fact that I was providing a steady food supply, clean shelter and let them walk around as they pleased made them somehow "like" me -- or at least follow me around all day. So I started my chicken journey not learning about fun things like hatching or rooster behavior, but about diseases and afflictions.

So we soaked Cleo's feet and operated. One foot was not as bad and we got the kernel out. That foot healed completely after a few more scrapings. The other one was so bad the foot was already disfigured and try as we might repeatedly to heal it, that's what eventually killed her -- but 3 years later. At least she got three more years of mobility and a good life. Eventually we were able to cure the other hens' cases of bumblefoot which weren't a severe as Cleo's.

Anyway, after the first surgery, she was so weak from the bronchitis and the blood loss, I thought she might die. Her feet were wrapped and I would carry her around so she wouldn't get mud in the bandages. She was barely conscious. I started to wonder if this was any way for an animal to live.

But then a hummingbird flew very close to us and hovered in the air, and Cleo picked up her head and looked at the hummingbird wistfully and with so much curiosity, I knew she still wanted to live. And she did, for quite awhile.

For a long time I felt horrible about all of it -- like a total failure as a chicken keeper because of how difficult for me that first group was. But now I realize I actually did well by them, or as well as I could with zero experience and sick malnourished birds. And that they came with their problems. And not having good nutrition as chicks started them damn far behind the eight ball. (I saw the fellow I bought them from on the bus once. He had a sack of dried whole corn. He's a poor man immigrated from Venezuela, so pretty far behind the eight ball himself. I never berated or even told him he sold me sick chickens. After all, he probably thought I would eat them like a sensible person. But I asked him politely, "Comprando maíz for sus pollitos?" -- Buying maize for your chickens?" And he answered "Sí senora!" I asked, "Comen algo mas? -- Do they eat anything else?" He looked confused -- I took that for a no. Then he advised me to keep the hens I bought from him penned so they would be better ponedoras -- egg layers. So that's what they ate, just whole dried corn and the rocks that tore up their feet when they tried to scratch for something else.

Even with their early misfortune, they were a happy bunch once they got used to freedom and a more balanced diet. Each one of them was very unique. Some like Cleo were more endearing but they all deserved my energy and respect. And that's what I gave them. What more could I do?
They taught me a lot, and quickly, even though it cost them the long lives some chickens are fortunate to enjoy. It's a very bittersweet feeling.

IMG_20220710_222245.jpg

Cleo is buried under this tree. Not a bad view.

My goodness I can tell some sad stories. Is "pet tragedy" a genre? I think that's enough from me on death for now. Looking forward to seeing the new tribe and many more grow up and hopefully fare better.
 
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