Too Many Good-byes

In the past two months, my family has had to say good-bye to four pets. For some people, four would be ALL of their pets, but since we have chickens and a Maine Coon cattery plus a few others added to make our lives more challenging, there are still a large number of furred and feathered family members. Thank goodness for them or the void may be even larger.
I don’t know yet if I can write too much yet about losing Cassie, the Maine Coon I often proclaimed was my favorite, the one I would keep long after she retired from breeding. Cassie's death was caused by a family member who didn’t see her jump into the dryer. It was a horrific accident which will haunt us forever and one I can’t dwell on. I have written before about how special Cassie was to me, how she’d jump from the floor into your arms, or onto your back when you least expected it. Cassie loved everyone and her love was reciprocated by all.

Cassie died on June 15th. Fortunately we went on a family vacation a week later as I desperately needed the change in scenery. The grief over Cassie’s death was overwhelming at times. However, vacation was good therapy and I felt I was finally able to move on when we came home.

Then Kelsey’s Russian tortoise, Eli, got out of the outdoor cat run where he lives during the summer. We looked all over, somewhat reassured that the stone walls which border either side of our property would keep him out of the woods. Being a tortoise has its advantages also, I told Kelsey. His greatest enemy would be the road and our driveway is a quarter of a mile long. For good measure, we informed our two neighbors who also live back in the woods about Eli, describing him as the size of a box turtle, but more blond in color and with faded paint on his shell from when Kelsey painted him over a year ago.

Meanwhile, Charlie the hamster’s enclosure was left open and he escaped. As soon as it was discovered, the cats were removed from Kelsey’s room and a towel was used to plug under her door. Charlie had gotten out while we were on vacation, but he’d been found safe in the closet. After an exhaustive search of Kelsey’s bedroom, I advised her to sit and listen for Charlie, certain we’d find the little guy, and I headed for bed. There I found Charlie in my bathroom, but not before the mother cat inhabiting my room found him. Charlie was not so lucky this time.

Our luck seemed to change when our neighbor was mowing the grass on the side of the shared driveway and noticed a tortoise with paint on his shell. Eli was back!

Meanwhile, our beautiful bantam Cochin hen, Millie, was sick. At first I thought her labored walking was due to her very short legs and her picking up balls of dirt and poop which hung to the ground between her legs. I trimmed those off and bathed her. We kept a closer watch and noticed that she had stopped hobbling over to the area under the deck and just remained in the coop. Then Millie could no longer get up to roost at night, nor could she get down in the morning by herself.

I got the name of a vet in Mystic who specializes in birds and exotic pets, Dr. Cindy Brown at Northeast Veterinary Hospital. Dr. Brown said Millie had a neurological problem which kept her from balancing. The cause could be Vitamin D (Purina recently recalled their chicken layer pellets due to a Vitamin D deficiency). It could also be caused by tumors or many other ailments. We decided to treat for a Vitamin issue to see if it helped. Millie received two vitamin injections and was put on antibiotics, vitamins and a homemade diet.

Within a week, it was apparent that Millie was getting worse. She would no longer drink, even when I dipped her beak in the water. She had to lean against the side of the small cage I’d put her in to protect her from the other hens just to stay upright. She was constantly flapping her wings in an effort to balance. I decided that Millie needed to be relieved from her pain and had her euthanized on a Tuesday.

The following Sunday, we had yet another loss. Jay and I were getting up from watching television and our 13-year-old cat Remy collapsed as she neared the top of the basement stairs, meowing frantically in pain. Remy had lost a lot of weight over the past couple of years and after normal blood test results our vet could only conclude that she probably had cancer. Once a rotund 18-pounder, Remy had slimmed down to a reasonable 11 pounds. Not ones for veterinary heroics when the end result is the same, we had decided we would just watch Remy. I had weighed her just a few days before and her weight had remained stable for the past couple of months.

Remy joined the family back when we lived in Florence, South Carolina, before I became a Maine Coon breeder. I had recently lost my cat from my college years, Yoda, to cancer and felt desperate for a kitten to distract me from my grief. The animal shelters were practically empty in January, but my neighbor mentioned that a school teacher she knew had been raising a litter of kittens which had been abandoned under a bush in her yard. I chose the kitten with the pink nose and Remy came to live us, purring through two young children, my divorce, the move to my mother’s then to Connecticut, sleeping on Kelsey’s face, tolerating the Maine Coon kittens which played with her striped snake of a tail, the dogs who played too rough, greeting strangers, not caring when we made fun of her tubbiness and called her “Remy-lard” and knocking over the dogs’ water jug on their waterer when it got too empty.

When I saw that Remy’s hind legs failed her, I knew she’d thrown a blood clot. I’m so careful to screen the hearts of my breeding cats to prevent cardiomyopathy in my kittens, to try to protect any of my kitten buyers from experiencing what I saw before me. Remy was a domestic short-hair who’d never had a heart murmur yet here were textbook symptoms of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM). Her hind legs were cold, she was in tremendous pain. Jay held Remy steady on the kitchen counter as the cats and dogs gathered around her in concern. It was a Sunday afternoon, when all medical emergencies seem to occur. I called the number for Stonington Vet, knowing that their answering service would have the doctor on call get in touch with me. I have avoided the emergency vet all these years and didn’t want that to change now. Fortunately, Dr. Karen Brown, my go-to vet, was on call. I almost burst into tears when I heard her voice, thank God it’s you! I asked if she could come to the house, but she didn’t have the meds for euthanasia at her house if it came to that (too dangerous with her children in the house). She agreed to meet me at her office.

I was in full panic mode. I yelled for Tyler and Kelsey and told them to say good-bye to Remy as I was sure this was her time. Kelsey became hysterical. The vet had said she was okay, she argued. This is different, this is her heart.

Jay drove to the vet clinic while I held Remy in the carrier on my lap. Remy was able to use her legs to squat and pee on the towel, so I began to second-guess my diagnosis. Once there, Karen tested my fear. She pulled out a pair of nail clippers. Jay asked me if I didn’t just clip Remy’s claws last night. Karen told me not to be mad at her then she clipped one of Remy’s hind claws really short. “You’re checking to see if she can feel anything?” Remy hadn’t flinched. No. Then I realized, although I could clearly see the quick of her nail, it wasn’t bleeding at all. With a cut that short, her claw should have been bleeding profusely. There really was no circulation in her back legs, blood clot confirmed. Shit! I was right.

Within about 45 minutes of Remy’s collapse on the stairs, it was over as she lay peacefully on my lap. In retrospect, we had noticed that someone, probably Remy, had vomited a lot of bile that morning. Remy probably felt worse than we knew and her heart gave out. I comfort myself by remembering that at least we were there for Remy, we didn’t have to go through the long wait of cancer, watching her grow skinny, guessing her quality of life before making that phone call.

Probably 85% of my kitten buyers contact me because they’ve recently lost a cat. The void is painful and a new life helps to fill that void. I strongly encourage them to select a kitten which does NOT look like their previous pet. There’s a helpful article on grieving pet loss here. Losing the two favorite cats so close together has been really tough though the emotional breakdowns are gradually easing up. Even losing a hamster and a chicken hurts. I’m sure having other animals around has helped my family and me. I have been hugging them more and threatening them to stay safe, healthy and alive.

The dogs’ water jug was empty this morning. Remy wasn’t here to knock it over and let us know it was getting low.

A Rooster and a Gentleman

Back in January, I blogged about our new beautiful, but imposing Cochin rooster we named Aslan. At the time, I was very hesitant to introduce a rooster back into the flock because the last one we had became aggressive toward humans. However, between my family’s pleading and the rooster’s breeder who insisted that Cochins are gentle giants, I relented.

Aslan

Aslan was a good decision. He reminds one of a dinosaur when he runs, mostly because you can actually hear his footsteps, like timpani pounding on the ground. His crowing is minimal, especially when compared to the neighbor’s rooster half a mile away who seems to crow non-stop. The most astonishing observation of Aslan is how caring he is.

I first observed Aslan’s nurturing instinct when I left two eggs I’d collected on the ground while I did something else. He clucked and circled the eggs repeatedly, acting concerned that his future offspring were left unattended in the open.

Recently our bantam hen, Millie, became sick. She had a neurological problem that became increasingly worse and started remaining in the coop on the floor. As time went on, Millie not only had trouble walking, but could no longer fly or keep her balance. We had to put her up in the nesting box at night and take her down in the morning. When I finally took Millie to the vet (Dr. Cindy Brown in Mystic specializes in birds and loves chickens), she was put on a homemade diet, supplements and antibiotics to see if the cause was a vitamin D deficiency. The other possible causes were cancer or Marek’s disease, but I was unwilling to spring for x-rays and blood work. Millie had to be isolated in a small cage to keep the other chickens from stealing her food. Aslan immediately became concerned, first by looking for Millie in her normal spot on the floor, then by clucking around her in the cage which was placed near the coop. In the end, I had to have pretty, sweet Millie euthanized as her condition worsened.

We often give our chickens leftovers to supplement their diet of layer pellets. The hens come running as the goodies are tossed on the ground. Aslan runs to eat too, but unlike the hens who will steal from each other, he’ll stand back and let the girls go first. He has a bigger body to nourish, but he doesn’t need the calories the hens do to produce eggs.

Our blueberry and raspberry bushes traditionally provide summer treats for the chickens too. As we pick the blueberries, the chickens will stand around and on top of our feet, waiting for the next berry to fall their way. The hens rush in like bridesmaids trying to catch the bouquet, grabbing and running with their prize with the others in hot pursuit. Aslan seems to just supervise and provide. He will actually pick up a fallen berry and, instead of gobbling it down himself, carry the morsel to a hen and drop it in front of her. Who knew a rooster could be such a gentleman?



Blueberry  Opportunities

Sometimes It Takes a Village

Living in a rural community like Ledyard may not seem exciting to some, but it isn’t devoid of adventure. We have chickens on our 3-plus acres and our neighbors, Walter and Roberta, have horses (and a lot more land). On a recent Sunday morning, Walter came to ask for our assistance; they had a horse down and needed help trying to get her back on her feet.

Roberta has a 3-stall barn which stables her two horses and another belonging to her friend Linda. Roberta found the horse down at 7 am when she normally feeds. It was Linda’s mare, Eve, who couldn’t get up. I grew up around horses, but the ones I had were young. Eve is 22-years-old and arthritic. Eve knows her limitations and consequently never sleeps lying down. When I walked in the barn and saw Eve lying flat out in her stall, my heart sank. There was blood high on the wall where Eve had hit her head when she fell. Periodically Eve would raise her head and thrash her front legs in an attempt to rise, but her hind legs never budged. The limbs were stuck in place, unable to bend as needed so the mare could get them underneath her body for support. Not sure how long Eve had been like this, we theorized that the right hind leg she lay on was probably numb from her weight. She needed to stand.

The vet arrived and gave her a shot to help with inflammation, pain, etc. He said if we could turn her over to her other side and massage the feeling back in Eve’s right hind leg, she had a good chance of getting herself up. Wide, flat straps were slid under Eve’s body on either end by Laura and Matt, Linda’s daughter and son-in-law. We tried to turn her with her legs facing the larger end of the stall. However, handling and maneuvering a 1000-pound animal with thrashing hooves in an enclosed space is dangerous. Linda had already been kicked by a flailing hoof before we got there.

Fortunately, the stalls were designed with removable partitions. By this time a few extra people had arrived and in short order two walls were taken out to give us more room. It took a couple of hours to widen the stall, the vet to visit and the horse pulled around to ensure that we had room to flip her over safely. We finally had the room to turn Eve over by wrapping lounge lines around her legs and pulling. Eve’s hind legs were massaged and moved for her to restore circulation, but didn’t work. Eve struggled to rise and gave a valiant effort to stay up, but then she fell back down on her bad side again, cutting her other eye and banging her head in the fall. All we could do was stand back and watch as getting in close was too dangerous. I was relieved Eve had been fitted with a horse helmet intended for protection while trailering.

For the short time we had the mare on her left side, the forcefulness of her initial fall was apparent in the swollen and bloody eye and the large scrapes on her right front leg. Antibiotic ointment was put in her damaged eye and we tried to keep a clean towel under whichever eye was ground-side.

After Eve’s major attempt to get on her feet failed, she seemed to give up. She was tired. Her tongue hung out of her partially opened mouth. Eve would take water from a turkey baster, but did little from that point on to help herself. Meanwhile, Laura didn’t give up trying to find someone in the horse community who had a horse sling. She figured that if we could support Eve from the barn beams in a sling, her legs could gain the strength to move and hold her again. Laura called everyone. My step-daughter, Erin, who works as an EMT for Ledyard Ambulance heard of Eve’s plight and asked for assistance from the Ledyard Fire Department. Next thing we knew, there were 30 people in the barn with the firefighters and police. Apparently, the fire department has been called on before to help farmers with their cows that get in similar predicaments. Labeling this mission as “Air Bag Training”, the firefighters tried to get Eve in more of sitting position by inserting air bags under her back to raise it.

In the end, this failed also. The firefighters left and the vet returned after visiting other patients to give Eve another shot. He offered little hope. I asked him how long we should give Eve. “Until dark,” he replied. It had already been about four hours. I tried to offer support to Eve’s owner Linda and got Eve’s history.

Eve was an accomplished dressage horse who was being retired from the show circuit when Linda bought her 12 years ago. Linda herself was retired and wanted a pleasure horse to ride occasionally. Even with Eve’s arthritis, she enjoyed getting out and being ridden. After a few hours of the torture of maneuvering Eve, her struggles, and the hopeless look on her face, Linda started talking about euthanasia. The rest of us had already concluded that it looked like the only humane outcome. More than once, I felt like I could break down and cry at the helplessness of the situation.

The main motivator who really kept pushing and continued calling around was Laura. The rest of us followed Laura’s suggestions. Linda looked just as beat as Eve, her face flushed and sweaty. It was a 90-degree day and although there are industrial sized fans blowing in the barn, it was sweltering. Walter kept all the helpers who came and went well supplied with bottled water. Eve received cold sponge baths to keep her temperature down in addition to the syringe-fed water.

Then we heard that a woman who was an expert in horse rescue was on the way. The fire department had called Ledyard Animal Control who called Tanya Wescovich from Stonington Animal Control. I was skeptical. What would a horse rescue person be able to do that we hadn’t already tried? Tanya came in, a formidable, loud, take-charge person who insisted that we were going to get Eve up. Her own 27-year-old gelding had “been stuck” a few times and she’d always gotten him back up. Tanya had also received extensive training in how to safely maneuver large animals out of tight places. Tanya proclaimed that we need to get Eve’s hind legs working again with massage and movement. We’ve done that.

Tanya had two helpers with her who apparently had experience with downed horses also. She instructed Linda to yell at Eve to get up, for Laura to hit her rump with a crop and for her friend to pull Eve’s head across her body instead of straight ahead. She warned us that it would look mean, but the point was to force the animal to do what she didn’t want to do.

The yelling, the crop, the pulling…I walked out of the barn. I couldn’t watch anymore. They were just going to wear out poor Eve more and the end result was going to be the same. I almost walked down the hill to our house, but I came back. It didn’t work. I noticed that Roberta, the barn owner, had left also. When Eve was allowed to put her weary head back down, she did so gratefully. She had had it.

Tanya declared the horse needed to be moved out of the barn so that the downhill slope of the paddock could help her get her legs under her. Tanya expertly directed the pullers of body straps to safely manipulate Eve’s legs and head through the stall door. It was like moving a large table through a narrow door; first the legs, go to one side, then the other legs. Three to four people would pull on a strap around Eve’s body on command, moving her a couple of feet, then stop and allow the horse to rest. Someone else would remain with Eve’s head to keep the towel under her eye for protection from sliding on the dirt. I noticed after she was outside that Eve’s gums were white. Her expression remained listless, her hind legs stiff and motionless.

The cold wet towels were constantly rotated on Eve’s body, her head wiped down, her legs manipulated until they moved more freely. Finally, Tanya said it was time to make her stand. “What if, after all this, it doesn’t work?” I asked the guy next to me. All the yelling, pulling on Eve’s halter to make her rise…it didn’t work. Eve fell again. I looked over at Linda. She was wiped and I felt sure she would burst into tears at any moment and tell everyone to stop torturing her horse. Enough was enough.

But it wasn’t enough. Walter has a small tractor with a front-end loader attachment. He drove it into the paddock area. At Tanya’s direction, towels were placed under the web straps around Eve’s body to pad right behind her front legs and in front of her hind legs. The straps were secured to the bucket and Walter slowly raised Eve’s body for her. At one point, the horse’s weight was too much and the arms of the loader started to come down, but people rushed in for additional support and held up the tractor’s arms. Eve’s hind legs remained listless as she stood there supported by the tractor. They were pushed into position under her body and the straps were unhooked. More cheers. Eve started to sit down and I saw another failure coming, but the horse was pulled forward, her rump was slapped repeatedly, and Eve started walking!

Eve had given up like most of the rest of us, but Tanya the miracle worker knew her stuff. In the end, the community came out to help a horse; Animal Control Officers on their day off, a police officer who had a farm and cared, the fire department, neighbors, friends, children drug by their parents who worked for Ledyard Ambulance. Walter declared this event had restored his faith in humanity. Roberta said she’d follow Tanya into battle. After a long, hot 8-hour ordeal that we were sure was going to end in a dead horse instead had the patient being lead around the paddock.

I went to visit Eve a couple of days later. Linda had spent that first night after the fall in the barn with her mare. Eve is sleeping (standing up) in the larger lean-to area attached to the side of the barn for now as there is a natural fear of putting her back in the smaller confines of a stall for a while. Her legs seem to be back to normal and her eye and abrasions are healing nicely. The only negative side effect is the nerve damage Eve has to the right side of her mouth which makes it difficult for her to eat anything but mash. The vet is hopeful that the nerves will heal over time.

Eve had come so close to being euthanized that trouble eating seems minor. In the end there was a community that cared enough to band together to save the life of a horse. Sometimes it does take a village.

Just Pecking Around

I blogged over a month ago about our new chicks, Meringue, Nestle and Narnia.  They have been integrated into the rest of the flock now for a couple of weeks.  The newbies are still at that cute, friendly stage where they follow people around the yard and don't mind getting in your lap.  I took the opportunity today to take pictures today of our flock of 17 with my cell phone. 

Meringue and Nestle

  

Everytime I tried to take a picture of the 3 chicks, Narnia would run up to me and be excluded.  So I finally just held her.

 

Later, the 3 little girls rested so could get my shot.

Meringue, who is the mixed color Orpington, so far is living up to her breeder's promise of becoming quite large. Her sire is reportedly a 14-pound roo. She and the little Buff Orpington, Narnia, are living up the Orpington reputation for having the best personalities. Nestle, the Black Copper Maran, is more shy.

Millie, our Mille Fleur Bantam Cochin, is the prettiest little thing, but it seems like she's always broody and sits in the nesting box a lot.  The other two bantams are Silkies and they also go broody a lot.  Cute, but poor egg layers.

Aslan, our Partridge-colored Cochin rooster, is still magnificent.  He's very good with the little ones, but the crowing commences at 4:30 am.

Chicks at the water with the rest of the flock.  Buffy, our original Buff Orpington is on the right beside Chad, the Light Brahma. The fluffy white thing on the left is Beaker, our white Silkie.

It seems that many of my Facebook friends think of me as the chicken guru now.  I've actually been tagged by people I don't know.  I am by no means an expert on chickens, but I have learned a lot in the past three years.  My best resource continues to be Backyard Chickens. 

What started out as dream of three hens now has blossomed into a flock with 16 hens and one rooster with 13 different breeds represented.  I love the looks of the various breeds and their eggs (which is mainly why I have so many now), but it has the added benefit of being to tell the chickens apart easily and name them.  Pets first, egg providers second, garden compost third, dinner never.

A Robin Feathering Her Nest...Should Choose a Good Location

A few weeks ago, I noticed our dog Coraline “Cory” staring intently at the holly bush in the front yard. A second later, I was startled by a robin flying out of it. Sure enough, there was a nest in the bush, filled with four pretty little blue eggs. The only problem was the nest was situated about 30 inches from the ground, the same height as a Golden Retriever’s mouth.

Although our dogs know to leave our chickens alone, small birds really bring out their natural prey drive. After witnessing our sweet natured Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, flush, catch and instantly kill a baby bird on a hike once, I realized that she sees chickens and birds as different creatures. Cory, our Shar-pei mix, has an even stronger prey drive and focused on the robin’s nest every time she went outside. Cory is a very vertical dog, so although she’s smaller than Chardonnay, jumping up to grab the nest is well within her capabilities. We knew this was going to be trouble.

“Survival of the fittest,” rationalized my son. I cursed the ignorance of the mother robin for choosing such a low spot to raise her brood. Last year, the nest was in a maple tree, 15 feet up. Sorry, the thought of our dogs killing a nest of robins was too much.

The robins starting hatching so we knew we needed to do something. Jay and I found some old rusty fencing material and surrounded the holly bush, using a couple of old stakes to hold it steady. Being so low to the ground, it was easy to monitor the family as the little robbies emerged. The big surprise was that unlike chicken chicks which are fully feathered and adorable, newly hatched robin chicks are naked, their black eyes bulging underneath their closed eyelids. Not exactly cute; they reminded me of inch-long, miniature rubber chickens.

Two Days Old

I did some research on the American Robin, and found that the chicks go from naked to leaving the nest within two weeks. The newly fledged robins can’t fly too high or far yet, but will seek refuge in low branches or in bushes. The parents continue to feed and watch over the fledgling robins for another two weeks until they become fully functional fliers. Robins typically raise two or three broods each spring/summer, building a new nest for each family. They have concentrated, in and out parenting during the summer so they can take the rest of the year off. Still, even with their parents’ watchfulness, only about 25% of all robin chicks live to be adults.



Rusty Robin Fencing

I always heard as a child that one should never touch a baby wild animal because the mother will smell human and abandon her young. Now that I’m a backyard chicken hobbyist of three years, I’ve learned that birds have a very poor sense of smell. They use sight and sound to navigate through life. Young birds found on the ground should be left alone unless they are in imminent danger. The parents are around watching. However, one should never handle eggs found in a nest as the incubation process is complicated and the embryo inside can easily be killed if jostled.

We remained vigilant over the nest without trying to be intrusive and our rusty fence did its job of protecting the robin family from our dogs. We are well aware that snakes are easily tempted by a nest of birds and the fence could easily assist a snake trying to reach the nest. I have seen four-foot black snakes climbing fences or on top of tables, reaching toward nests of chirping Phoebes and Bluebirds. Ironically, I knew that our dogs would discourage any snakes, at least during the day. Fortunately for the robin, the babies were very quiet and attracted little attention. 

One Week Later

The last time I saw the chicks in the nest was a few days ago, looking like fat people in a crowded subway, wishing their neighbor wore deodorant and their stop couldn’t come soon enough.  I waited two days too long to go back and get a picture, because when I did, the nest was empty already. 

Chickens: Down One, Up Three

My family started our first backyard chicken flock almost three years ago. As I’ve mentioned before on previous blogs, the first day-old chicks arrived via US Mail from the Meyer Hatchery in Ohio. We began with 10 chicks, four of which were Easter Eggers (layers of blue-green eggs, often referred to as Ameraucanas or Araucanas). The other six were Silver Spangled Hamburgs. Of our original birds, we now have just four left; one Hamburg chick died during the first week, three Hamburgs were sold, one Easter Egger we lost to the hawk last fall, and just recently we lost another Easter Egger.

Our First Chicks

Foster, our almost white Easter Egger, was found dead in the coop by my husband Jay this past weekend. This is the first hen we’ve lost to natural causes as opposed to flying predators. The only explanation I can offer is that Foster had not laid an egg in about a year (Foster used to lay a paler, rounder green egg so I knew which were hers) and had recently been hanging out in the nesting box, a behavior she’s never exhibited before. Her feathers looked fantastic and healthy, and she had no outward signs of illness. She just died. Of course, there had to be some underlying cause like heart or kidney failure for Foster’s death, but since we didn’t have a necropsy done, I don’t know for sure. If the rest of the flock seemed sick, I’d probably be contacting UCONN for testing. I’ve heard of chickens just expiring and the other extreme of life spans up to 15 years.

Foster (white hen) sharing pasta with her first flock-mates

I was away at a cat show when Jay called to tell me about Foster’s death. Since he ties his own fishing flies, often using feathers as material, I asked him if he was going to use any of Foster’s white feathers. No, he couldn’t bring himself to scalp or pluck a bird he knew as a pet for three years. Jay used to hunt, a sport he had to give up when I moved in, so dissecting a dead animal doesn’t make him queasy. However, pet chickens have an elevated status over wild animals. I’ll always remember Foster as the one who was easy to identify from the moment she arrived, as she was the only all-yellow chick in our first batch. Faye and Flo, our remaining Easter Eggers, look very similar, distinguished only by Faye’s darker head.

Baby Foster

Although we are down one hen, we had, coincidentally, attended a small poultry show a couple of weeks ago. My intention was to get a young adult Black Copper Maran pullet because of their ability to lay a chocolate brown egg. Many poultry exhibitors were selling chickens outside the show area, but all that I saw were either small breed pairs or baby chicks. Chicks are more difficult in the beginning as they require heat lamps, special starter feed, frequent monitoring, an indoor cage and age-appropriate companionship for the first five to six weeks. Females normally begin laying eggs at around five months.

If I got one Maran chick, I’d have to get her a buddy. So we ended up with three chicks, bringing our flock total to 17. All of the new babies are deemed to be female by the breeder and have been named by daughter Kelsey. “Nestle” is our Maran.  Nestle's buddies are “Lemon Meringue”, a cross between a Lemon Cuckoo Orpington (yellow striped) and a Jubilee Orpington (multi-colored), and “Narnia”, a Buff Orpington (standard buff color). The new chicks are about 2 weeks apart in age and the smaller ones tend to rest under the bigger Lemon Merinque who plays Mama hen.  Lemon Merique's sire is a 14-pound rooster, so I'm curious to see how large she'll become.


New Additions

I love having chickens that all look different and lay different colors and sizes of eggs. Nestle should start laying her dark chocolate eggs in the late fall and add even more variety to our egg collection.

Mammograms Are a Pain, But Cancer is Worse

“It’s difficult to get a good picture of your breasts because they’re so dense,” explained the mammographer.

I looked at her. “You’re telling me my breasts are dense? Isn’t that why they’re called boobs?”

Offending my girls notwithstanding, I got a phone call from the Breast Imaging Department of Lawrence & Memorial Hospital the day after my annual mammogram, asking me to come back in so they could do a follow-up with a more specialized mammogram. I was concerned. The representative on the phone couldn’t give any more information and advised me to call my doctor if I wanted more details. I opted not to panic and call my doctor. I was going to be fine.

When I’d gone in for my regular squishing of the breasts the day before, I had not anticipated any problems. Cancer does run in my family, but no relatives have had breast cancer. It’s a small reassurance, but doesn’t guarantee anything. The mammographer that day, Katy, had been quite talkative and we enjoyed a rather lengthy conversation about our sons in college. I even wondered if I was distracting her too much as she took images. In retrospect, maybe bonding with the mammographer isn’t always a good thing.

Women generally complain about the pain caused by a mammogram. I decided long ago that it’s merely uncomfortable momentarily and not nearly as painful as those stiff, sharp-edged, square things the dental hygienist puts in your mouth to get X-rays. “Bite down and hold,” she instructs as I feel the insides of my cheeks slice open. I’d take a mammogram over dental x-rays any day.

I tried to hide my concern about going in for a follow-up mammogram. Jay asked if he should come with me, but I excused him. I rationalized that the mammographer wouldn’t be able tell me anything immediately anyway and I’d have to wait until the next day to get results. We talked in general about how much better cancer detection and treatment is today than it was even ten years ago.

Against my better judgment, I played the “what if’s” in my head as I drove to the hospital. If they found something, I’d probably just tell my sister at first. If it came to a biopsy and that was bad news, then I’d tell the rest of my family. No need to worry anyone unnecessarily, especially my mother who is living with liver cancer (and doing extremely well, thank goodness).

At the hospital, my mammographer of the day was Lisa; friendly, but not as talkative as Katy. I saw breast images on her screen and asked if those were mine, hoping to get a clue about the problem. “I can tell how cold the room was,” I joked. Lisa laughed politely and got down to business. They needed to concentrate on a specific area of my right breast. She used the analogy that if you imagine the breast as a bag of marbles, not all of the marbles are seen clearly when the bag is compressed in an effort to get a 2-dimensional picture of a 3-dimensional object. Her goal was to single out a few marbles. I resisted a “losing my marbles” crack.

Remember what I said before about mammograms just being temporarily uncomfortable? Not so much on the follow-up when a more specific area is compressed. It was a gasp-areyouserious-thisfrickinghurts-hurryupdammit-pain. There were red marks left behind that would surely turn black and blue. Lisa apologized and advised Tylenol when I got home. I was certain this called for ice packs and a glass of wine too.

As I held my whimpering breast, Lisa informed me that the mammogram review doctor was in and she’d be back momentarily to give me the results. Really? No waiting for hours, days possibly, mentally torturing myself with more “what if” scenarios? I sat down, still wearing my hospital-issue blue cotton top while Lisa left me alone in the room. A few minutes later, Lisa returned. “You’re fine,” she smiled. “You can go home.”