Many years ago, we bought a flock of Orpingtons. There seemed to be something wrong with them from the start. First of all, they all had dried poop in their vent feathers. That alone should have been a deal-breaker from buying them, but we didn't know better. Secondly, they were quite apathetic. We'd read Orpingtons were supposed to be docile... We just hadn't assumed that "docile" meant "will not leave their tiny coop during the first three days of their stay here, and when they finally do go outside, they will only venture one foot into the yard, and then one single foot further each day".
When they had been here dozens of days and those feet had turned into an equal number of feet, it was clear that their phlegmatism couldn't be attributed to newcomer shyness. They would surely walk quite some distance from the pop door at this point, but wherever they ended up, they would stand still for the better part of the day. Or, if they felt like changing things up a little, lie still.
We were disappointed. We had had chickens before this; many of them brown layer hybrids, arguably the most active variety in chickendom, but even our other breeds and crossbreeds had been spryer than this. They say you don't miss something until it's gone, and our Orpingtons made us realize that a large part of what makes chicken keeping enjoyable is their perpetual, puppy-like curiousness, their constant antics that make them such a joy to behold. Our present flock provided little more entertainment than a bunch of melons dipped in tar, rolled in feathers and let to lie.
But hey, you have to love all your children equally, right? And slowly but surely, we learned to appreciate the little joys that even these six-pound couch-potatos turned out to provide. The breath-taking shimmer of the blue rooster's feathers in a particular angle on a sunny day. The humorous way he always signalled by letting out a loud "gah!" when a human came into view. How a hen looked when she walked across the lawn with those stubby legs, her belly all but touching the ground, a virtual basketball come alive. The occasional egg, of course. And the sheer size of them was a source of entertainment in itself. We once heard a passer-by exclaim "look, chickens", whereupon her friend corrected her with a "those aren't chickens, those are turkeys". The rooster, particuarly, always made me think of a battle-ship.
Which is why we were saddened when they inexplicably started to die off. By the second death, we sent the hen for autopsy (you can do that for free in Sweden if you have reason to believe that your flock is in danger). The papers came back saying she died of gout.
Suddenly, things started to make sense. Gout is when the kidneys fail, which causes fluid to build up in the body. This could explain the apathy. If there is fluid in the lungs, oxygen uptake can be compromised. In other words, maybe our chickens were constantly tired and out of breath because their lungs didn't work.
Countless were the times when we had sworn "never again Orpington". Perhaps the breed wasn't to blame for the extremely low activity level. Maybe it was the gout.
There had been a third thing weird about them, that I haven't mentioned yet: Sometimes the naked skin in their faces swelled up for a few days. Often just one half of the face. This could of course also be attributed to fluid build-up, and the gout.
One more hen died. And some time later, the rooster fell ill.
In contrast to the hens, his fall was noticeable days in advance. We first noticed it by the fact that flies were crawling on him. Normally, the chickens wouldn't have allowed that. Tired they might have been, but they were particular about their hygiene.
Secondly, he got even less active than usual. He used to be a bit shy and never let a human touch him. Towards the end, one could pick him up without much protest.
Then came his last evening. The remaining hens (we had at this point expanded the flock with some Brahmas) had gone into the coop. The rooster had lain down in a corner outside the coop, a secluded area where I'd never seen him go before. He obviously had a sense of what was going on. I distinctly remember seeing his body heave with every breath, something I've never noticed in a chicken before.
I decided to give him one more shot at getting better, and left him for a few hours. When I came back, it had turned pitch dark, and he was in exactly the same spot, heaving in the same way.
Mom and dad where the owners of the chickens, so nothing major chicken-related could happen without their approval. I went inside and explained the situation to my mom, and that we had to euthanize the rooster. My mom refused to let me do it, even after a rather heated argument. Fuming, I went to bed.
Next morning I walked out to the chickens, relieved by the fact that by now at least, the rooster's suffering was bound to have ended. To my great dismay I noticed that he was still alive. He was in the exact same spot, breathing heavily, except that his breathing was now noticeably slower.
My heart broke at the realization that he had been suffering the whole night. I quickly fetched my dad, who in turn got the air rifle.
This is where my question finally comes. I lifted the rooster up, and to my horror, beneath him a large pool of sticky, white, opaque liquid had gathered. It lay just underneath the centre of his torso, and didn't seem to smell (though to be honest, I wasn't to keen on finding out whether it smelled or not). To this day, I don't know what that liquid was or where it had flown from (he had no visible wound).
Dad shot him in the back of his head, he flapped a little, and finally, his suffering was over.
I think back to this whole ordeal from time to time, and one thing I wonder about is just what that liquid was? Does anyone of you have any idea?
When they had been here dozens of days and those feet had turned into an equal number of feet, it was clear that their phlegmatism couldn't be attributed to newcomer shyness. They would surely walk quite some distance from the pop door at this point, but wherever they ended up, they would stand still for the better part of the day. Or, if they felt like changing things up a little, lie still.
We were disappointed. We had had chickens before this; many of them brown layer hybrids, arguably the most active variety in chickendom, but even our other breeds and crossbreeds had been spryer than this. They say you don't miss something until it's gone, and our Orpingtons made us realize that a large part of what makes chicken keeping enjoyable is their perpetual, puppy-like curiousness, their constant antics that make them such a joy to behold. Our present flock provided little more entertainment than a bunch of melons dipped in tar, rolled in feathers and let to lie.
But hey, you have to love all your children equally, right? And slowly but surely, we learned to appreciate the little joys that even these six-pound couch-potatos turned out to provide. The breath-taking shimmer of the blue rooster's feathers in a particular angle on a sunny day. The humorous way he always signalled by letting out a loud "gah!" when a human came into view. How a hen looked when she walked across the lawn with those stubby legs, her belly all but touching the ground, a virtual basketball come alive. The occasional egg, of course. And the sheer size of them was a source of entertainment in itself. We once heard a passer-by exclaim "look, chickens", whereupon her friend corrected her with a "those aren't chickens, those are turkeys". The rooster, particuarly, always made me think of a battle-ship.
Which is why we were saddened when they inexplicably started to die off. By the second death, we sent the hen for autopsy (you can do that for free in Sweden if you have reason to believe that your flock is in danger). The papers came back saying she died of gout.
Suddenly, things started to make sense. Gout is when the kidneys fail, which causes fluid to build up in the body. This could explain the apathy. If there is fluid in the lungs, oxygen uptake can be compromised. In other words, maybe our chickens were constantly tired and out of breath because their lungs didn't work.
Countless were the times when we had sworn "never again Orpington". Perhaps the breed wasn't to blame for the extremely low activity level. Maybe it was the gout.
There had been a third thing weird about them, that I haven't mentioned yet: Sometimes the naked skin in their faces swelled up for a few days. Often just one half of the face. This could of course also be attributed to fluid build-up, and the gout.
One more hen died. And some time later, the rooster fell ill.
In contrast to the hens, his fall was noticeable days in advance. We first noticed it by the fact that flies were crawling on him. Normally, the chickens wouldn't have allowed that. Tired they might have been, but they were particular about their hygiene.
Secondly, he got even less active than usual. He used to be a bit shy and never let a human touch him. Towards the end, one could pick him up without much protest.
Then came his last evening. The remaining hens (we had at this point expanded the flock with some Brahmas) had gone into the coop. The rooster had lain down in a corner outside the coop, a secluded area where I'd never seen him go before. He obviously had a sense of what was going on. I distinctly remember seeing his body heave with every breath, something I've never noticed in a chicken before.
I decided to give him one more shot at getting better, and left him for a few hours. When I came back, it had turned pitch dark, and he was in exactly the same spot, heaving in the same way.
Mom and dad where the owners of the chickens, so nothing major chicken-related could happen without their approval. I went inside and explained the situation to my mom, and that we had to euthanize the rooster. My mom refused to let me do it, even after a rather heated argument. Fuming, I went to bed.
Next morning I walked out to the chickens, relieved by the fact that by now at least, the rooster's suffering was bound to have ended. To my great dismay I noticed that he was still alive. He was in the exact same spot, breathing heavily, except that his breathing was now noticeably slower.
My heart broke at the realization that he had been suffering the whole night. I quickly fetched my dad, who in turn got the air rifle.
This is where my question finally comes. I lifted the rooster up, and to my horror, beneath him a large pool of sticky, white, opaque liquid had gathered. It lay just underneath the centre of his torso, and didn't seem to smell (though to be honest, I wasn't to keen on finding out whether it smelled or not). To this day, I don't know what that liquid was or where it had flown from (he had no visible wound).
Dad shot him in the back of his head, he flapped a little, and finally, his suffering was over.
I think back to this whole ordeal from time to time, and one thing I wonder about is just what that liquid was? Does anyone of you have any idea?
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