A Hen Party - by Malcolm D. Welshman B.V.Sc
Catch up with the work of celebrity vet and author of the best selling book ‘Pets in a Pickle’ Malcolm Welshman.
I was apprehensive when I saw I had an appointment to see four chickens. My senior nurse, Mandy, was a stickler for cleanliness, so I anticipated a few squawks of protest if the chickens made too much of a mess.
The birds duly arrived in a large cardboard box which a girl of about twelve heaved onto the consulting table. ‘My four Ms,’ she declared. She undid the string wrapped round the box and lifted the lid. Four heads promptly popped up and eight beady eyes stared at me quizzically. The girl tapped each one on the head. ‘Martha, Mavis, Matilda and Mabel.’
‘Er … yes. I see.’ Though I didn’t really. Each bird looked identical to me. Red comb and wattles. Reddish brown plumage. I hazarded a guess as to their breed. ‘Rhode Island Reds?’
‘Warrens.’
Put in my place, I glanced at the girl’s name on the card and turned to her. ‘So, Rebecca, what seems to be the problem with your Warrens?’
The girl pushed a long lock of dark hair behind her ear before answering. ‘Martha’s moulting heavily. Much more than normal. And the others are also losing quite a lot of feathers.’
The chickens jostled against each other, softly clucking, their heads jerking to and fro as they peered over the edge of the box. I couldn’t remember which was Martha, took pot luck and lifted one out.
‘That’s Mavis,’ said Rebecca.
Mavis got bundled back in amidst a cloud of feathers. I lifted up another.
‘Matilda,’ I was informed.
I dropped her back. The third squawked indignantly as I hoisted her up.
‘You’ve got Mabel.’
I lifted out the last one. ‘Martha?’
‘Correct.’
The hen flapped her wings wildly. In the torrent of down that erupted into the air, I sneezed and lost my grip on her. She sailed onto the consulting table, skidded across the smooth surface like a drunken ice skater, careered against the side of the box and knocked it off the table as she disappeared over the edge. The other three birds tumbled out of the box screeching in alarm.
As if a quilt had suddenly burst, the room filled with feathers. In a snowstorm of down, Rebecca and I chased the birds attempting to round up them up. Suddenly the consulting room door shot open. Through the fog of feathers I saw the disapproving face of Mandy and heard her loud ‘Tut’ above the squawks of the hens before the door slammed shut again. So no offer to re-box them. That decided it. I’d admit the hens for further examination and make sure Mandy assisted.
With the chickens tipped into a spare kennel, I watched them strut round, their heads twisting to one side as they eyed their reflections in the steel feeding bowls. Then I called Mandy. She appeared, her crisp, white apron crackling against her fresh, green uniform. I pointed to moth-eaten Martha.
‘Could you please catch up that hen and bring her through to the prep room.’
Mandy’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed
.
I smiled sweetly at her and then quickly shot out to the prep room where I stood listening to the squawks, swear words and rattle of kennel bars as Martha was rounded up. Mandy eventually staggered in, the bird pinned tightly under her arm. She was breathing heavily, her apron creased and smeared, her hair smothered in feather dust. She blew a feather off her lip and levered Martha onto the table, her hand gripping the bird’s legs together while her elbow ensured one wing stayed wedged in place while the other was stretched out for me to examine the under-surface. All very expertly done. When I had finished my examination of Martha’s plumage and skin, I allowed Mandy to scoop the bird back up.
‘All done then?’ she said with a thin smile.
‘Er ... no. I’d like you to catch up the other hens for me.’ If looks could kill, the one Mandy shot me would have had me plucked and ready for roasting. As suspected, they had the same problem. Lice. I’d seen a few crawling through Martha’s feathers and had spotted several clusters of nits.
When Rebecca collected her chickens and the medication to fumigate the hen house and treat the birds, she presented me with six dark brown, speckled eggs.
That made me feel guilty about how I had treated Mandy. So that lunchtime I went down to the newsagent and bought her a large box of chocolates. I left this in the tearoom; and with it, a card from Martha, Mabel, Matilda and Mavis, thanking her for her help.
After all said and done, Mandy really did rule the roost.
Article by: Malcolm D. Welshman B.V.Sc.
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