A Rooster's Tale - The Fall and Rehab of Ra

I certainly didn't wake up one morning and say to myself, "You know what Self? I think I would like to start a poultry rescue." However, 24 years after getting my first pet chicken, here we are. It's an interesting life to say the least. It is not for the faint of heart and it is definitely not for someone who likes to plan out their day, week, month...well, you get the idea.

I cannot even begin to tell you how many days have started as follows... I woke up with the sun. I rolled over and said good morning to whatever chicken happened to be sleeping in a covered cat bed on my bedside table, and yes, there's always at least one. I rolled back over and stretched out across the whole bed and lay looking at ivy garlands lazily draped between the corner posts of my bed and thought to myself, "Wow self, we don't have anything specific planned today, no commitments and nowhere special to be. We'll be able to tackle some project, do some deeper cleaning than usual, or maybe just relax a little." It is at that exact moment in my day that if my inner self could bitch slap me, she would. Because that is the precise instant that everything goes sideways. Cue ringing phone.

This particular day would be no different. I poured myself a cup of coffee and walked out in the sunroom to read the paper...wait, no this isn't 1998...to read the news on my tablet...again strike that. If I'm being totally honest, I was just going to scroll through Facebook for funny chicken memes to repost. I walked to the french doors and flung them wide open. I stepped to the railing on the balcony and let the warmth of the April sun permeate my face and drew in a long breath and let the scents of the farm fill my senses. I stood there for a while, just taking it all in.

The solitude was cathartic and my mind began to drift. I was suddenly jarred to back the present by a familiar albeit not altogether welcome sound. It was my cell phone ringing on the table inside the room behind me. I sighed audibly. "Here we go," I thought to myself. Very few people have this number, so I knew it was probably something important. The caller ID said it was a friend of mine, however a friend that generally communicates via text, so I was instantly felt my chest tighten slightly. I answered the phone with obvious hesitation in my voice. "Hello?"

Without even exchanging pleasantries, she launched right into telling me how her husband had found one of their young roosters in the coop the night before. Something had attacked him. He was covered in blood and barely conscious. Now, 12 hours later, she had still not even been able to determine if he had his left eye. Being a vet, she had given him a prophylactic dose of antibiotics. Her knowledge of poultry beyond avian theory, however, was very limited. She asked if I would be willing to assess him if she brought him in. Well, so much for my relaxing day. I prepared the med bay for an intake and awaited her arrival. I have seen a lot in my day, but you are never fully prepared for the worst cases. This was one of those.

I waited by the entrance where we receive intakes. When she arrived, I opened the rear passenger door of her truck to see a near lifeless pile of feather nestled down in some hay in a small cage in the back seat. I watched for movement as I lifted the cage out. There was no obvious sign of life. My friend followed me as I carried the cage into the med bay. I set it down on the table and remove the top so that I could lift him out.

I knew this rooster. I had known him since he was a 2 day old chick. He was the extra chick that hatcheries throw in to your "hens only" package to make you think you are getting a special prize, but that always turns out to be a rooster. Surprise! He was a sweet bird; he was a huge bird. He was a full size Cochin Rooster with radiant flowing golden feathers. If he had been mine, I might have named him Ra for the Egyptian sun god. Her kids had named him Mr. Fuzzy Legs. Well, that's close I guess...

Now, our policy on birds brought in with extreme injuries like this is that we will treat them. But since we are talking weeks if not months of treatment and rehabilitation, we ask that you surrender the bird to us. I simply cannot treat a bird for injuries such as this, pour my time, my heart, my soul into them only to return them to the circumstances where this happened to begin with. Most people agree to the surrender because they know it is the birds only chance for survival. My friend knew our policy and agreed it was his best chance. The fallen sun god would become a permanent member of our sanctuary.

As I lifted the limp feathered body out of the bed of hay, he began to show signs of life. His head began to sway slightly as if he was trying to lift his head. He then let out a blood curdling scream as though the pain were simply too much for him to bear. Now I wouldn't normally hold any bird that was not my own against me because of the risk of pathogen exposure or parasites, but the maternal instinct in me transcended any rational thought and I drew him against my chest and supported his head on my arm. I felt an intense desire to comfort this poor creature. He had obviously been through something life altering and desperately needed to know some sort of comfort.

As I held him, his body began to vibrate. Not everyone knows this, but when chickens feel safe and loved, they purr. Somewhat like a cat purrs, but it is not audible. This poor soul innately sensed that I was here to help him and he rewarded my compassion the only way he knew how. He purred for me. I would need to begin treating his extensive wounds, but for this moment in time, a mother's love was exactly the medicine he needed.