Red Bird, My Friend

hawk

Thanks to @Nightmare101 for her cover, which is of an Ameraucana, and looks much like Hawk.

hawk

Among my first flock of ladies, there was another standout. While Red Bird was sweet and docile, I had a more troublesome gal. She was a dark and light-bodied Ameraucana. She was constantly jumping out of her yard and into the large backyard. This was more of a nuisance at first.

I was trying to train the girls to roost in their coop at night, rather than all over the yard. Hawk was having none of it. She wanted to hang out on the back porch where I had kept the little cage with a heating lamp that the birds grew up in.

This drove Grandpa nuts. He was always on me to clean up the chicken poop off the porch. The porch we rarely ever used. I didn't see the issue, but he did. His dream was to retire and tend to his lawn. His chicken poop-free porch and lawn.

The other issue was the fact we had a big black lab and an ancient golden retriever whose houses were on the porch as well. The dogs were really good about the chickens, though, and paid them little mind. Or so I thought.

One morning I went out to feed my birds and water the garden. Matthew ambled out with me to play in the sandbox, as he did every morning. Yet, for some strange reason, he stopped on the porch, crouched down, and began babbling in his little boy language. I turned, baffled as to what he was going on about.

That was when I saw her. Hawk, huddled under a fold-out chair. It was so unlike her, so unlike any of the birds. The sun was out. If the chickens had a choice, they'd be out searching for bugs. I knelt next to my son and pulled the hen out of her hiding place.

Though there was no blood that I could see, she was injured, it was obvious. She was holding her head stiffly and resisted my efforts to evaluate her. Finally, I turned her the right way and found that the feathers of her chest and neck separated to reveal a long, open wound. She'd been torn open somehow.

I assumed one of the dogs had chased and caught her. Being the good dogs they were, though, they had meant her no real harm. Once they'd caught the poor bird, they'd likely just dropped her. And possibly licked her clean. At least that's what I had assumed. Either way, I was thankful she was still alive. My real concern was keeping her that way.

I took her inside and put her in a box lined with paper and stocked with water and food. After tending to the other birds and feeding my son, I worried over my injured bird. Grandpa came home on his lunch break. He worked an early morning shift at a care home and was always home early for lunch.

He took in the situation. "I can take her out back and put her out of her misery."

I looked at him, horrified. "No!" 

He shrugged. "She's probably going to die..."

"No, she's one of my favorites. I'm going to give her a chance."

"You sure? I have an ax..."

"Dad!" I glanced over at my son, contentedly eating Cheerios and watching PBS. I lowered my voice. "I'm going to go to the feed store and get some medicine. She might pull through."

You see, a feed store in a small town is where you get all sorts of animal supplies. The kindly old gentleman that ran my favorite store knew livestock as well as any vet. I told him about my hen and he smiled.

"Chickens are surprisingly tough. You'll know by tomorrow if she'll make it." He went to the shelves and found a spray can and a packet. "This can is wound coat. Spray it on the injury and it will help seal the wound. This powder is antibiotics. Add a little to her water."

I paid and hurried back home. I checked in on the little bird. She blinked at me from her place in her box. I tended to her wound and put the medication in her water. She made no effort to move throughout the day, but that was understandable.

The next day, she was still with us. And much to my surprise, she hopped out of her box. She was nowhere near back to normal, but I knew she'd probably be just fine. So she got her wish. She was moved to a small cage to the back porch where I could keep an eye on her. It took a few months, but soon Hawk was healthy enough to rejoin her flock.

Sadly, she was always somewhat of a loner after that. Her absence from her flock mates made her the odd man out, but they accepted her well enough. And her obsession with the porch was worse than ever. And so were the piles of chicken poo.

Though my dad will never admit it, I'm sure he wished I'd let him "put her out of her misery,"  as he'd suggested.