Sunny lives! A chick dies!

Good news!  Turns out a 2-year old border collie CAN get hit by a truck going 5-miles an hour across the front yard—that was, em, driven by her owners—and be just fine.  

She’s got a bruised right scapulae (her shoulder), and she’s on pain killers, but is otherwise doing okay.

I held off taking her to the vet because my husband kept telling me over and over dogs are tough, they’ve evolved to survive hardship.  If Sunny looks okay, and acts okay, then she is okay.  I didn’t want to be charged hundreds of dollars to be told the same thing by a professional.  

But yesterday Sunny was so lethargic and whimper-y; she barely moved.  What can I say.  I’m not some grizzled old farmer with no dog compassion.  I didn’t want to chance it any further.  

So I called our good friend Nellie—a vet—and had her look at Sunny when Nellie wasn’t working.  Clever, eh?  Sure enough, she declared the dog fine if a bit banged up, gave me a few pain pills, and sent us on our merry way. 

That same day, Cowboy came home with two gashed and bloody front legs. He got into a nasty fight with a raccoon….and was on the losing end of the battle, apparently.  Fearing rabies or an infection, we took him to the vet right away. Cowboy has been on antibiotics since Monday. (See, we’re not totally indifferent pet owners.)

If two war-torn dogs aren’t enough, one of my baby chick’s legs gave out.

I found the poor little guy trying to crawl around the cage using his baby wings, dragging his limp legs like two useless twigs.  He could barely lift his beak out of the bedding in the cage.  It was so sad. When I’d pick him up, he was so weak, he almost felt hollow. There was no strength in his body whatsoever. He could only keep his eyes open half-way.

The peculiar thing about chickens is how vicious they can be. Even at this tender age, stronger chickens will seek out weaker chicks and peck them….to death.  Five or six chickens will gang up on a sick or runty member of the flock and tear it to pieces.  They’re so heirarchal they begin jockeying for social position as soon as they’re born.  This is where the term “pecking order” stems from.  I’m not sure why they do this, but I suppose they instinctively know weaker members draw predators.  

Sure enough, already the stronger members of the flock were pecking and pulling at the sick chick’s prostrate body.  So I immediately quarantined him in a separate, smaller box. Dazed, he refused food and drink, so I called the hatchery for advice. They told me point blank I was probably going to lose him, but I can try force feeding him a mixture of egg yolk, honey and drink mix fortified with electrolytes and vitamins.  Apparently, chicks feed off yolk while they’re still in the egg, so it’s a taste they already identify with.  He gobbled up a few beak-fuls, drank some liquids, and soon enough was walking upright around his little abode, happily chirping.  

I was elated.

But as time wore on, he refused sustenance again, and yesterday morning, when I peaked inside his litte box…..the poor guy had died. 

I was heartbroken.  He had put up a good fight!  But the truth is, when dealing with animals/livestock, death is part of the equation.  There’s no getting around it.  So I had to buck up, deal with it, and move on.

My parting image of the chick was the sight of his little body slowly spinning though the air  as I ceremoniously tossed him into the sink hole. 

Sometimes life isn’t pretty on the farm.