Occasional Scribbles

Having ticked off Black Henny, (see last post), for producing more babies that she has failed to look after, I find myself with four tiny little bods which is not good news at such a late stage in the year.  The nights and mornings are pretty chilly and it will be weeks before these little mites are anywhere near old enough to manage in the coming autumn/winter.

I blame myself really.  I haven’t kept enough of an eye on the brood and hadn’t noticed that, Black Henny, hiding in the far dark corner of the shack, managed to hatch out the chicks.  This is her third set this year.  The first ones were born far too early and died of cold as she stubbornly sat on the nest, determined to hatch out every single egg (stupid) while the first hatchlings were left unattended and perished.  I tend not to get too involved having had many disappointments and sadness when things go wrong.  These days, if they are producing any babies, I provide food, shelter and water and leave them to it. 

Black Henny is a first time mother this year and has no idea what she is doing without the help of the Matriarch who sadly died around the time of the arrival of the first babies.  With no one to teach her, she made a hash of it.  Speckle hen, on the other hand, has been fantastic.  She has already brought up the first and only survivor of the first batch and supervised the two black hens when they managed to produce, between them, another three.  All of which I am glad to say are happy and healthy. 

I managed to palm off four of the new babies onto Speckle who is now thrilled, despite initially refusing to help.  But thinking it had all worked out nicely, I then found two more babies had hatched in the early hours of Saturday morning.  I saw their little bodies lying outside the nest, stiff and cold and assumed they were dead.  I picked them up, cleared out the nest and put them out on the heap.  I was about to walk away when I noticed a tiny movement.  I picked them up and sure enough they were still alive – just.  I rushed them inside, filled up hot water bottles, wrapped them up and bunged them in the airing cupboard.  ‘If they survive’, I thought to myself, ‘that’s fine, I’ll give them to Speckle’.

The last few days have been a nightmare.  The chicks did survive, but having almost died, they seemed to have brain damage and found it impossible to stand on their own, throwing their heads back which tipped them over backards. I looked at the poor little chicks and wondered what to do.  I couldn’t get them to eat but knew that they are born with a ready made supply of food that lasts a couple of days, so I gave them water, kept them warm and hoped their heads would behave normally soon.

By yesterday though, I felt it was hopeless.  They had not improved and still wouldn’t eat the various concoctions I made of soaked bread and ground up corn and all I could do was give them more water.  Yesterday evening, I was beginning to consider killing them off.  It was a nightmare.  I can’t kill anything, not even a spider and I’m scared of them.  I felt I couldn’t keep them in this state of misery and thought it would be kinder to bop them on the head.  But how to do it?  I imagined picking them up by their tiny legs and bashing them against something, but didn’t like that idea.  I considered snapping their necks between my fingers, but again, I couldn’t make myself do it.  I thought of drowning them, having heard somewhere that it is a relatively ok way to go.  But drowning is the stuff of my own worst nightmare.  I couldn’t do it.  I then thought of my grandmother and how she died.  She died of old age really but near the end, full of drugs, she stopped eating and drinking until her life wound down.  It was heartbreaking.  I couldn’t do it.

I placed the babies back into their box on the hot water bottles.  To stop them falling over, I had cut up an old sock I found, given as a freebe by an airline, on a flight to somewhere.  It was loose enough not to constrict them but perfect for wrapping them in a secure little bundle.  I could hear them cheeping away and was amazed by their strength.; they didn’t seem close to death.  I decided though, to go with the starvation idea.  I would stop the water and hope they just wound down.  I popped them back in the airing cupboard as I went to bed last night, feeling like a coward, hoping they would be dead by the morning.  I consoled myself that at least they hadn’t died on the heap out in the cold.  I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I’ve become very attuned to the sounds they make.  I know when something is wrong by the differing pitch in their tiny voices. Many times, over the last few days, I have felt something was wrong only to find that one or both have escaped from their sock and rolled away from the hot water bottle, or be upside down and unable to right themselves.  I listened to their quiet cheeps as I lay in bed, feeling part dejected, part relief, that these dear little things would probably not be with us the next day.  I was almost asleep, drifting in that comfortable near- sleep, half-wakefulness when I heard some very loud and frantic cheeping.  I dragged myself out of bed, remembering how it was when my own children were babies, needing me in the night. 

I open up the box and peer inside.  One of the chicks is shouting his head off.  He looks fine, hasn’t fallen over and is peeping out of his sock. I wonder what the problem is.  I pick him up and he looks up at me.  He seems much steadier, no head rolling backwards business.  I keep him in his sock and he gazes up at me -me his mum.  The Other has been getting ready for bed himself and comes over to look.  “Maybe he wants some water or something?” he asks.  He goes off to get some for me and comes back with water and some chick food.  “He won’t eat,” I say, morosely.  “I’ve been trying all day to get them to eat something, but they don’t seem to know how to peck.”  “Why don’t we make up a mix of food and water in a syringe and squirt a bit into his beak?” offers The Other.  “He’ll drown” I say with exasperation at this idea.  “He has a tiny stomoch and it’s so easy to give them too much, you wouldn’t believe how tiny they are inside.” I say worriedly.

I put a bit of crushed corn onto the edge of the sock in front of the chick, not really expecting anything to happen when The Other shrieks with delight and points at the baby.  I look down at the pathetic thing on my lap and sure enough he’s pecking at the crumbs.  I can’t believe it.  All day I’ve been trying to feed them and now the little mite is feeding himself.  I realise what all the shouting was about;  he was finally hungry and ready for food.  “Feed me – now, cheep cheep!”

We are both thrilled with this unexpected turn of events.  I guiltily remember that I was thinking of killing them only a few hours before.  Eventually I put him back in his box and seeing the other one is asleep, leave them.  There is no more cheeping and we all, finally go to sleep.

Both chicks are better today and each has eaten a tiny bit of food.  It seems they may survive afterall and poor Speckle may have an extra two mouths to feed in the next day or so if I can sneak these two in without her noticing.  Thank heavens for Speckle.