Laughing Fern and her Christmas Hen

Fern was reunited with a hen this holiday--one she'd lived the first year and a half of her life with.

Cayenne Pepper the gold laced wyandotte was the biggest and most showy of the three we got from the 4H kid a few years ago. That breed is definitely one of the most showy overall. Someone recently described Cayenee as 'the most beautiful chicken she'd ever seen'.

One night in December I found her in the far corner of the chook palace, on the ground, when she should have been roosting. I could tell that her belly was full and taught, and that was why she was in some respiratory distress. 

This means an instant upgrade in living arrangements.  She spent that night in the basement in a large dog kennel on some soft towels.  As a raiser of any type of fowl it's pretty important to have alternate housing arrangements for times like these.  I have two large dog kennels, two large and two small guinea pig cages, and a smaller cat carrier, all sourced on Craigslist. No need to pay full price for most things. (this is a segue into a blog I've wanted to do for a while, on essential equipment).

The next night she spent several hours roaming around the main room, interacting with Fern (very amicable!) and inspecting the wood stove area.  That night after we'd retreated to the back room with Fern to watch a movie I found Cayenne roosting on the blanket that covers Fern's cage.  Double decker wyandottes. 

That was where she roosted for the next several weeks.  Her breathing got worse.  She still foraged and interacted with Fern, and even found her way down the hallway to our TV room and jumped up on the couch to be part of things. All of this was surprising to us, since she'd been terrified of humans when we'd first adopted her.  She and her sisters weren't flighty, but just more aloof than the birds we'd raised ourselves, so this new behaviour was very puzzling and endearing. 

Fern was still going through her recent traumas.  She really seemed to enjoy this new company. Cayenne preened Fern's face.  Fern deferred to her in all matters of treats. Budgie seed, meal worms floating in water, and fresh lettuces were her favourites.  

One of our swale turnips we'd had in the fridge for months sprouted so the greens went to them. It was a big hit.

Cayenne would wander the main room when we were there.  She'd even come over to the wood stove and lay on the floor, resting and enjoying the heat. Fern seemed very happy with the whole arrangement. It was all bittersweet since we pretty much knew these were the last days for her. I believe in palliative care for our animals.  So this is what we tried to do.

I took her to my vet friend who agreed to do an exploratory surgery on her.  For days before the surgery I slept poorly.  I had tormented dreams, and my subconscious kept working overtime.  My vet friend had tapped her belly the week before to see if there was fluid (often what happens to hens, and it compresses their air sacs and intestines which leads to breathing difficulties, and bowels not working right, not to mention a lot of pain) She withdrew frank blood.

When Cayenne's breathing seemed to be getting worse, I had to put her in the basement where it was cooler--upstairs was too warm in the evenings with the wood stove pumping out heat.  She was on anti inflammatories and opiate pain medication twice a day.  I tried to tap her belly with the special needles I'd been given. I got the same disappointing and confusing results--frank blood. We weren't hitting organs where we were poking. So what the???

I had an old friend coming in to town to stay with us on his way through to Ontario. Cayenne's surgery couldn't wait.  I set my alarm for 6 am, and was due at the vet hospital for 8 am.  It's a bit weird to be anesthetizing your own pet...For my vet friend? She's done multiple surgeries on her own pets.  That would be really tough.

So we set things up for the surgery, and I said good bye to Cayenne as I was masking her down.  I intubated and my friend got right to work on the surgery. When cutting into the coelomic cavity takes place you have to breath for the bird, but it was pretty tough. there wasn't any room for me to bag her. So much pressure back there---no room for her air sacs to fill. After cutting through the layers we had some hope--fluid started spurting out, especially as I gave her breaths.  We had a moment of relief then, but as she went deeper my heart really did sink. Intestine and air sac mottled with tiny little tumours.  I think tears started to stream at that point.  It's no fun crying and snotting into a surgery mask.  I kept doing my job.  As she explored further the big problem was exposed--and I won't soon forget it.  Giant blood vessels surrounding a mass.  That's cancer. And that's what we'd been hitting with our needles.

So at that point the choice was easy.  I'd had my fears confirmed.  I turned the anesthetic all the way to max, and kept breathing for her.  Doc gave her the euthanasia drug into her wing vein. It didn't take long, our gift to her of a painless death.

Good bye sweet girl.  Fern, G and I will miss our Christmas hen.