Morning becomes Apoplectic

I don't like talking in the morning, and anything that demands thinking is ignored until I’ve had caffeine. I don’t know why my mind needs a slow start; it’s as if the chaos to come is kept at bay until I am ready, or at least that’s the illusion.
This morning, while making coffee, I heard distress outside. I figured my older hens were picking on the younger, which is natural. But natural doesn’t mean acceptable and chickens can be both brutal and stupid.
Because the dogs wouldn’t stop barking, I went out. Sure enough, one teenage-chick was stuck in the back of the fenced enclosure, and the other chickens were trying to peck it to death. Yelling “STOP-IT!” at a chicken doesn’t work like with a dog. Helping it meant finding a way inside the fenced portion of the coop. This fenced area connected to their hen house was an afterthought to keep them out of the garden. When I added the enclosure, I made no entry, except for the hole in the coop siding for something the size of a chicken to climb through. All it took were recycled metal fence stakes driven into the ground, enough four feet wide chicken wire to stretch three sides with the building itself creating the fourth side. Then of course, enough wire across the top to prevent escape.
I entered the building through the big door to crawl arms first, through their oak-framed, pagoda-style door. Contortionists get into the wildest places, why not me? This is the logic of fools I thought, but couldn’t stop myself. I wiggled in past one shoulder, when it hit me that if my top wouldn't fit, neither would my hips, and I got stuck. I thought about being pecked to death by the chickens. I thought about the fact that I was stuck on the ground in dirt and crap, without anyone to save me. I was glad I never installed that live-chicken web-cam I once thought would be great. But there I was, flat out in the doorway. Imagine that picture on the internet! After a few graceless, backward flops, I got out.
The search for wire cutters began. I sorted through tool drawers, found the cutters, cut through the wire cage, spread the sides with both hands, and forced my way through the stiff wire cage. Even after that, I couldn’t get the bird out. It was caught by the tongue and foot with some kite string that I couldn’t see without my glasses on. Don’t ask how the kite string got in there; it was likely some random act of wind and gravity teamed up against the stupidity of a chicken. But the poor bird, maybe its foot was stuck and in trying to peck its way out, it literally got tongue-tied. Don’t know. I fetched the wire cutters and cut the string away, cradled the bleeding bird with both arms, then forced my way back through the chicken wire fence.
Getting out was a sadistic birth experience. The chicken wire snapped closed while I was prying my way out. My arms and legs got cut up on the sharp wire, but the chick mouth was worse. The beak was bloody, clotted, string was coming out from under the tongue, over the tongue, but I couldn’t see why. It looked mostly dead. I called my vet, and they won’t do birds, they did know someone who would, but then why take a $1.50 chick to a $200 vet?
Instead of calling the bird specialist, I got scissors, a flashlight, water and a paperclip. I could be McGuyver. Rinsing the mouth and seeing if it was strong enough to swallow were both good indicators of what might come next. It was thirsty, which meant it had a will to live. I held it upside down on my lap, but before I could begin the string removal, my youngest came in. I figured …a recruit! She was made sick by the blood. I told her to put her feelings aside and to hold the darn flashlight. She was reluctant, but did it. “Oh mom, that’s Foxy.” This chicky had a name. This one was the pet chicky that they watched movies with. It was the cute Araucana from spring with the eye-liner markings they named Foxy. This one was friendly, unlike the old Rhode Island Reds that tried to peck it to death.
Caitlin had to focus on getting the light into the bird’s mouth and not getting in the way. I figured she’d be the better for it, or else I’d soon have a dead chicken, tears and barf to clean. “Mom, you’re bleeding.” “Yeah, I know,” I said to acknowledge her alarm. I used the straightened paperclip end to clean the debris, blood and to unknot, but couldn’t get all the string out. Each time I pulled at part of a knot, the whole underside of the chicken tongue would bleed. If I just clipped it shorter, it might fall off, as long as I could avoid the chicken tongue, I thought. The scissors were too big to work inside the small chicken beak. It was like shooting a bazooka at a mosquito. I ended up putting the search on for a smaller scissor, then cut as much away as possible while avoiding the little chicken tongue. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour. It seemed like forever. After the oral surgery Caitlin cuddled Foxy in a towel.

The chicken didn’t give up, and neither did we. Caitlin learned a bit about obligation, even when it’s messy, even if you have to bleed a bit. I’m hoping she grows to have a bit of McGuyver in her, but I hope she never needs it. Soon I’ll have that coffee, but not before repairing the fence. In the immortal words of the Hobbit Sam, “There’s still a little good in this world, and it’s worth fightin’ for.” OK, I’m old and I am not too sure about what the good is in a chicken, but our pet Foxy will live and my daughter knows a little bit more about responsibility.