Glenbrooke News

by Doni Greenberg, reprinted here with permission from Anewscafe

I can now admit that my heart sank last spring when my twin brought a trio of black baby chicks into her home. For months she cared for her chirping little birds - The Supremes - Diana, Flo and Mary - in her laundry room, and then living room, until the chickens were big enough to live outdoors.

Shelly’s love grew for The Supremes, and the feeling was obviously mutual. The chickens followed her around the yard while energetically clucking and buk buk buk-KAking. Shelly showered The Supremes with affection and attention and special chick feed. She was fond of pointing out people-applicable poultryisms, like pecking order, and getting one’s hackles up, and the concept of women’s hen parties and females’ propensity for hen-pecking, and how humans can get ruffled feathers and act broody and feel cooped up, and how, in a perfect world, rest assured, chickenswill come home to roost.

Shelly shared her love of The Supremes with her granddaughter May, who learned how to speak softly to the chickens, to gently pet them, and even stoop over, pick them up and carry them - which actually seemed OK with The Supremes.

I wasn’t being morbid, but logical, when I found myself preoccupied with The Supremes’ eventual deaths. For Shelly’s sake, I really dreaded it. Chickens are living creatures; all living creatures die; ergo, Shelly’s chickens will certainly die.

Shelly had already suffered an unbelievable amount of gut-wrenching loss in just a few years. It began with the death of her youngest son, Matt, to leukemia, followed by her husband Jeff, also to cancer. Shortly afterward, Shelly had to put down Matt’s beloved, previously lovable dog Levi, after it committed two unprovoked vicious attacks against children, one of whom was May, then a toddler. Jeff was the primary breadwinner, so the bank reclaimed Shelly’s dream house when she couldn’t keep up payments. Finally, even her poofy-eyed goldfish, Rodney, died the week she left town and had a house-sitter.

The good news was that The Supremes thrived under Shelly’s excellent care. They grew into robust, social, mature chickens with personalities as varied and distinct as their colorfully featured bodies.

Diana - the flashy, salt-and-peppered bossy diva, laid pale, cafe au lait-colored eggs.

Mary - aka “Mother Mary” - was an easy-going, ebony beauty who laid mocha-hued eggs and never balked when May toted her around the yard.

Flo was a saucy, spirited, gorgeous redhead with shimmery green iridescent wings who laid brown speckled eggs.

The Supremes gave Shelly hours of laughs, because really, what’s funnier than a chicken?

The chickens’ Victorian-style coop became an elaborate poultry compound after Shelly discovered cats and possums and perhaps even raccoons had access to her yard, and might harm her chickens.

Not on Shelly’s watch.

Speaking of watch, I’m the designated chicken-sitter when Shelly’s away, which became even more problematic last month when Shelly bought two more chicks: Ameraucanas (they’ll lay greenish-blue eggs) called Abigail and Eleanor, named for a pair of famous American first ladies.

Selfishly, it’s important for me to get this chicken-sitting thing down asap because Shelly has an upcoming month-long trip planned. Mary, Flo, Diana, Abigail and Eleanor will be solely in my care.

Lord help me.

Lord help Shelly’s chickens.

That’s why I welcomed a recent practice chicken-sitting run when Shelly left me with her “girls”  for the afternoon while she ran errands. Shelly mentioned that she’d integrated the Ameraucanas with The Supremes in the big chicken pen for a few hours, but all seemed fine.

No problem, I said, I’ll just work on my laptop and keep an ear open for them.

Shelly wasn’t gone 15 minutes when I heard a cacophony of chicken squawking. I ran outside and found Flo had cornered Abigail and Eleanor and was doing an ice-pick imitation on their little fluffy heads. The chicks were so wild-eyed and freaked-out that I feared they’d have mini-poultry heart attacks. I shooed Flo the bully away, and made a smaller chicken pen area for A&E within the big yard. That lasted just a few minutes because both Abigail and Eleanor literally flew the coop and raced around the yard in opposite directions, peeping to beat the band, wings flapping like tiny Keystone Cop Chicks. It took me another 20 minutes to catch the chicks, because they kept ducking into small, dark, spidery places.

My former adoration for A&E turned into fantasies of barbecued chick-kabobs.

Even so, by the time Shelly returned home all was quiet on the chicken front. We put A&E in a large rabbit cage, and set the cage inside the chicken yard, which resulted in a scenario much like putting a couple of midget scuba divers inside a metal cage in great-white-shark-infested waters.

Flo was unrelenting. She continually screeched and charged at the cage, which terrified the chicks, although technically, they were safe.

So it went for weeks, until the chicks outgrew the rabbit cage, which was when Shelly made a smaller yard within the chicken yard, separating the little birds’ fence from big, aggressive Flo with potted plants.

Little did we guess that the day would come when Flo wouldn’t be a threat. In fact, right now we’d give almost anything to see Flo pestering Abigail and Eleanor, or see May clutching an alert and perky Flo.

Almost two weeks ago Flo became lethargic. She stopped eating and drinking. She stopped laying eggs.

Shelly went online for information and was horrified by the chicken calamity possibilities: Maybe Flo was egg-bound, maybe she had a broken egg inside her, maybe her crop (food filter) was blocked, maybe she had avian flu, maybe she had an infection, maybe she ate something poisonous. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

God bless my sister. With the aid of a gloved hand and some Vaseline, Shelly did a careful exam on Flo that would make any OB/Gyn proud. Good news: No egg trouble.

For the next days, Shelly cradled listless Flo in a towel and fed her antibiotics and electrolytes. She whipped up special vitamin-fortified chicken mash in a blender, which Shelly fed to her precious chicken via a syringe.

Back online, Shelly read discouraging, straight-talking comments from more experienced poultry people. They said don’t even bother naming a chicken, because chickens come and chickens go. They said a chicken’s just a chicken - btw, not the brightest farm animal - and sometimes bad things happen to good chickens. Cut your losses and let nature do its thing.

Shelly rejected that advice. She took Flo to a Redding veterinarian, Doug Ginno, who ruled out infection, bird flu, anything contagious and any blockages (at either end). He took two x-rays and said it appeared Flo had some kind of gastric trouble, although it was even possible Flo had cancer. Either way, Ginno said there was really nothing for him to do at this time to help Flo. (Side note: Ginno’s office has called three times since then to check on Flo’s condition, which made us wish Ginno treated human patients, too.)

Ginno released Flo to Shelly, who brought home her redheaded winged patient to convalesce inside the house, just like when Flo was just a little chick.

Shelly fixed up the guest bathtub as Flo’s hospital, complete with clean towels, medicine and a heat lamp. By now, Flo’s eyes stayed closed most of the time. Her once-proud, pointy tail drooped, and although she could have easily left the tub, she didn’t even try. Periodically Flo strained her neck and opened her beak wide, as if to speak.

The resulting emotional toll on Shelly was as I feared. Caring for Flo conjured up tormented images of human hospice for loved ones who didn’t survive.

A few times in the next days Shelly put Flo with Mary and Diana, thinking perhaps it would make Flo feel more normal to be part of the trio again. That proved a bad idea because suddenly, inexplicably, Flo acted afraid of Diana, to the point when, even in Flo’s weakened state, the poor frightened bird gathered enough strength one day to fly up and over the chicken yard, straight into Shelly’s ever-lovin’ arms.

One recent sunny afternoon Shelly tried something new: She set Flo in the chicken nursery with Abigail and Eleanor, the very chicks Flo once terrorized. The chicks acted initially curious, but soon ignored Flo and went about their business of raking the earth in search of buried treasure.

For her part, Flo sat slumped in the grass, eyes squeezed tight, seemingly oblivious to the chicks who she once delighted in chasing.

Saturday dawned and Shelly awoke with a decision: She wouldn’t prolong Flo’s misery any longer. Come Monday, she’d take Flo back to Dr. Ginno. She’d ask him to do the merciful thing.

That afternoon, for old time’s sake, Shelly put Flo in The Supremes’ yard, where the subdued, shaky bird gingerly stood and took some tentative steps; not exactly with her sisters, but near them.

So it went for the rest of the day.

As the sky darkened, before Shelly could collect Flo to bring into the guest bathroom for the night, The Supremes began their routine of heading into the safety of their chicken coop for a night of perched slumber. First went Diana, quickly up the ramp and into the house to her perch.

Miraculously, Flo followed -  wobbly, slowly - up the steep, narrow plank and into the coop in which she’d not set foot for many days.

Last came Mother Mary. All was well. The Supremes were in for the night.

Shelly looked heavenward, said ”thank you,” and completed her part of the nightly routine: She carefully pushed the coop door closed - just hard enough to block a critter’s entrance; lightly enough that The Supremes could shove the door open at sunrise.

Shelly went to bed that night unsure of what morning would bring. At daybreak, when she peeked into the yard, she found Mary, Diana and Flo, together in the chicken yard.

We know that chickens come with no guarantees - much like life itself.

We know that chickens - like people - don’t live forever.

Most of all, we know that despite blue-sky optimism for farm-perfect chickens, the truth is that like so many things, sometimes life’s outcomes fall cruelly short of our greatest hopes, plans and expectations.

Love, marriage, justice, friendship, work, health, travel, home, family - even the weather - can unexpectedly twist, snap and break in the most grotesque, unthinkable ways, despite our best efforts and most heart-felt desires.

And sometimes, no matter how much we wish and pray otherwise, there’s not a damn thing we can do to fix life’s irreparable fractures, disappointments and heartbreaks.

Maybe Flo will make a full recovery. Maybe she will live to be a grand, old, beautiful bird, strutting around the yard as her ruby, emerald and onyx feathers glisten in the sunshine. Maybe she’ll live out her days energetically scratching the ground to uncover a smorgasbord of bugs, earthworms, seeds and delectable greens. Maybe once again she’ll lay smooth, cocoa-colored speckled eggs, and resume the daily chase of Abigail and Eleanor around the coop, just for the thrill of it, as if to cluck with all her might, “I’m alive and well and giving those young chicks hell.”

Or maybe she won’t.

But for now, Flo’s still here.

And so are we.

Editor's note:  Doni and I have been close friends since our children went to pre-school together.   She is the inspiration behind Glenbrookenews and continues to support and motivate me.

Independent online journalist Doni Greenberg founded what’s now known as anewscafe.com in 2007 with her son, Joe Domke of the Czech Republic. Prior to 2007 Greenberg was an award-winning newspaper opinion columnist, feature and food writer recognized by the Associated Press, the California Newspaper Publishers Association and E.W. Scripps. She lives in Redding, CA.

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