One good turn ..

One of my chucks developed a wry neck, with her neck bent back and to one side as though she was staring at the sky. The distorted neck position made it hard to aim for the feeder, so it was challenging for her to eat, but other than that and walking around in circles, as you would if your head was back to front, she was alert and responsive. In four years of keeping chickens I’ve never seen anything like it.

The information on the hen forums suggested it was a vitamin B/E deficiency and advised supplements. I began treatment, hand-feeding her 3 times a day. At first, she seemed to rally, and indeed, after about a week, I arrived at the coop one morning to find her gathered at the door with the others, anxious for her morning grub. I tell you, I felt like James Herriot and Dr. Doolittle rolled into one.

But alas, improvement was short-lived, and a few days later her head was once again so far back and to the side as to be almost under her body. But I persevered and spent another 2 weeks feeding her vitamins, to no avail.

^{Sleeping quarters. Many ex-battery hens don't perch.}

I’m not a great believer in the medical profession, either doctors or vets, but yesterday I admitted defeat and made an appointment. There are very few vets in Ireland with knowledge of hens, but lo and behold if there isn't one in my nearest town. So off I went this morning, though my brother said they’d laugh me out the door bringing in a chicken.

When I arrived, the waiting room was heaving. Sure enough, everyone else was accompanied by a dog or cat and stared inquisitively at me as I sat down with my cardboard box. "Wry-necked chicken," I announced, to a chorus of sympathetic oohs and aahs.

As each patient was called, another would take the seat next to me, so by the time I was called at 1.15 for my 12.15 appointment, I’d been entertained with the life and times of at least a dozen furry chums.

^{Chucky McChuck in happier days}

The vet was an elderly gentleman, probably in his late 60s or early 70s. His back was stooped, and his voice was low and soothing.

“How long have you had her?” he asked as he gently examined her.

“18 months,” I replied.

“She looks older.”

“Yes, she is. I rescued her at 16 months.”

“Oh, from Little Hill?”

"Yeah, Little Hill."

“God bless them. They do great work.”

“Can you do anything for her?”

“I could give her a course of antibiotics, but they’re unlikely to help, and honestly I think you’re better off letting her go. She’s not having a great time of it like this.”

I’m not given to crying, but tears welled up and I turned away, not wanting to appear melodramatic. It’s a hen after all.

“She would have ended up on someone’s plate,” he said quietly to my back. “You gave her 18 good months,” at which point I couldn’t hold back the tears as I thanked him and agreed to let her go.

"Do you see many chickens?" I enquired as I was leaving.

"Not many" he said with a little chuckle.

I paid the 75 euro fee at reception, but as I headed to the exit, the receptionist called me back and handed me 50 euro. "The vet adjusted the bill," she said.

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