Not another chicken blog

So, anyone who knew me as the next Gordon Gekko back in the day might be confused that I'm blogging about chickens most of the time these days. No one is more confused by this turn of events than yours truly.  But it's what's been going on here. So without further ado: 

Circle of life, tragedy, pathos, amputations in the field with no anesthesia, fear, doubt, and finally an ending saccharine enough for Disney to buy the rights to. 

To recap, a random hen decided to nest right outside my front door, much to the unbridled enthusiasm of my scent hound Jethro. (See previous posts if you need to catch up)

On Friday, mama hen’s eggs finally hatched, and I saw 9 little fuzzy chicks vs. the 11 or so eggs I had seen a few days earlier. I figured that was a pretty good yield (?) but I’m by no means a poultry expert.

Next morning, I see mom out and about with the kids following along and chirping; it was all very cute. Only counted 8 chicks still around, but with the snakes/dogs/cats/other chickens about, not too surprising. 

But, what I really noticed was 7 chicks (5 black, 2 white) were all bounding around close-ish to mom, and the 8th was a good deal behind, stumbling around like a drunk looking for an open diner at 4 a.m.

He was much smaller than his sibs, and on closer inspection had a gigantic right foot. My keen medical brain kicked into action and I said “Bumblefoot”. I said that for two reasons, the signs fit and it was the only bird disease I could pull out of my ass at the moment.  After a second of contemplation, I realized that was an odd disorder for a < 2 day old chick to have. I took a step closer, and, ugh, discovered the reason for the swollen foot. Chick had a compound fracture, proximal tibia, bone the size of an 18 ga. needle just sticking out. Foot hanging on by a few millimeters of skin. Little guy trying to keep up with everybody, Falling over every third step.

Oy. Decision time. Doing nothing meant that the bird would be dead in 4-24 hours, starvation, predation or septicemia, take your pick. Since it was ‘my’ bird, born in ‘my’ yard, I had to act. [Yeah, I’m an idiot like that. But if you know me, you knew that already. ]

What to do? I’m a moderately good dog doc. This patient was way out of my zone. I thought about the first vet I ever worked for, Dr. Sims, who would pin bone fractures in bats that weighed (literally) 3 grams. But he had gas anesthesia. And pins. And expertise.
I was 0-for-3 there. so....maybe a splint?

If the bird could ambulate, I figured, it could keep up with the rest, eat, drink, get stronger....ehhh, not my best idea ever, but I decided to try...
Scooped up the little guy in my baseball cap --on third attempt after playing Ole with a charging, pissed off hen twice--& Brought him inside. I did fashion a Ridiculous Chick Splint (RCS) out of a small, C-section I cut from a 3ml syringe. Taped it to his upper limb, and watched him proceed to nose plant and drag said splint behind him. FAIL. Probably a weight thing more than anything else. Shit!

What now?? While I was playing chicken doctor, Jethro decide to come over and investigate. After the 23rd time I shoed him away, I looked at his silly tripawd self and said, A-HA! That’s the ticket.

***THE NEXT PART MIGHT BE CONSIDERED GROSS BY SOME READERS************************************* SKIP DOWN TO NEXT ROW OF STARS*****************

I picked up the chick, who was a tremendous patient by the way, held 
an alcohol prep pad on the bone and stump for a few seconds, then transected the skin attachment. I think I got mostly necrotic tissue. 

My operating table. VMSB would not approve. I don't care!

   



  
Dabbed the area again, then closed the stump with tissue glue. 

The brown tape in the hat is my would-be splint. I really thought that could work. Oh well.







******************************************************************

My plan was to drop him back in the nest, easy peasy, and that’s that. ‘Cept mom and the kids had disappeared into the jungle for the night. No more nest by my front door. M'kay....

So chick got to sleep in the extra bedroom. I went on to syringe feed the chick with coconut milk overnight, cause, it’s what I had, and I told myself it was essentially Ringer’s + Dextrose. Chick was BAR and chirpy, so I did OK.

Today, I had to hope that the hen would continue to feed in my yard. Sure enough, around 8 am, I hear them outside my window. I scooped up Nemo (Yes I named him. For his lucky fin/leg. See above for discussion of how I’m an idiot) 
and went out to see if I could return him to his family group. 

First Sib to greet Nemo

After a few tense seconds, they was like peas and carrots again. He’s hopping along like a champ. So, there’s that. Odds are still significant that he will not last very long, but you can’t fight nature, only give the kids a chance.  I am pleased I was able to complete the big important step, returning him to fam. 

Nemo on the right

Everybody back to the jungle

I promise the next post will be about food or music. 

White Lies & Alibis

A bit of a psycho, ‘5 full moons in a row’ week here on Guam. 

Tough week for me to get it all down on ...well, not paper, ..on iCloud server space I suppose. 
Several emergencies of note..CPR on a cat, acute abdomen in a Mastiff, and both walked out of the clinic (Yes, I’d rather be lucky than good), but I did have a fair bit of drama outside the world of vet med yesterday, so come with me, if you will, to a small stretch of 4 lane coral/asphalt hugging the edge of Guam like a barbed wire tattoo, the road known as Marine Corps Drive, or simply Route 1. 
It is the main roadway running north-south on the island, joining a dozen villages that are home to more than 75% of the islands population. Route 1 is THE main drag. 

So, there I was, minding my own business, driving south, back to base after lunch. I was doing oh, 45-ish, which is typically the speed of traffic, regardless of the fact that the speed limit here is 35mph. All of a sudden a semi-trailer truck, which was 8-10 car lengths in front of me, veered from the right lane, nearly smashing a tiny red boonie car that was in the left lane. 
(A boonie car is a more than 10 year old, mostly rust-colored, POS)
The truck continued slicing left, through the center turn lane, into and across the two Northbound (oncoming) traffic lanes, which were luckily, unoccupied, only coming to a stop when the laws of physics said so, in the form of the steel guardrail and concrete electrical wire pole.  A violent stop to be sure.

Instinctively I pulled my truck on to the shoulder, and dashed across the road. The driver’s side fender/light/quarter panel were all pulverized, and the truck had jackknifed, cab kissing the guardrail, trailer hitch in the traffic lane, and rear of the truck also against the rail. First on the scene I was glad to see the driver was up and about, already climbing down out of the cab. He was about 50, short and fluffy, maybe Chamorro, maybe Filipino. But he was conscious and alert and already had his flip phone out. I asked him his name and was he OK?, he said Yeah, Yeah. I figured he was calling the cops, but he was calling his trucking dispatcher to report the accident. After about a minute, he started having trouble breathing, and started pacing, then dropped to his knees. I tried to get him to keep still, stay in the shade, stop moving his head, but he it was like he was on pogo stick. Adrenaline high. Until he started to dry heave. 
I took a moment to look up into the cab of the truck, and, duh, no airbag. Just a giant steering wheel. A-ha! I did some light palpation and, yep, his sternum was ummm, not quite right. I finally got him to sit down and catch his breath, sort of, as he kept becoming tachypnic, randomly. He starting going on and on about the dog that jumped out, how he hit the brakes to avoid it, and how his brakes locked up and he couldn’t control the rig. Told me the story a bunch of times over and over, rambling. I called 911 for the crash and the driver with chest pain, and waited for the ‘real’ first responders to show. 

About 12 minutes after my call, a patrol car came by, but it was just coincidence, they were driving by and stopped for the crash and proceeded to direct traffic. The car that responded to my call came a few minutes later, the ambulance 5 minutes after that. 

In the meantime, since he was alert, the cops took the driver’s statement for the record..”dog on road, swerved, brakes locked..” only stopping to interject, “Hey, if there’s a dog in the road, just run him over next time”--- Thanks Officer Guerrero for that little peek into island culture. 

Then it came time for my statement. Honestly I just wanted the damn ambulance to get there. I said yeah, it went down like he said, brakes locked etc. Finally, midday sun beating down on my head, sweat dripping, I said my goodbyes as the ambulance arrived. The truck driver called me Bra, which is as good as it gets if you’re a haole like me. 

I made my way thru the backed up traffic on both sides of the road to get in my truck and drive on. Couldn’t help but be a tad bothered by the fact that I saw no dog, heard no squealing tires, so no puffs of smoke from the lock-up... just saw the truck go off course. My white lie bothered my slightly, but what I was really thinking about, what bothered...no, pissed me off, was that not one other person stopped to help. 

Nothing to see here...move along

Somehow, both of my previous blog posts now have alibis attached:

Addendum One:
Black & Tan dog. 
In the course of interviewing candidates for our civilian tech position this week, I was talking with a woman who works at a vet clinic is Asan. The spot where the nasty Black & Tan dog charged us was right behind the clinic where she works. So I figured I’d ask, hey what’s the deal with that evil mutt??..Oh, she says, he belongs to the Mayor’s Office (!)

First off, don’t go thinking that the Asan Mayor’s office is anything like City Hall or a Town Square, it looks like this.

Island bureaucracy. If you think this looks like the type of place where there's a water buffalo tied to a tree just out of frame, you'd be 100% right.

So, further reinforcing the ‘semi-owned’ feral dog scenario on this island, the Mayor is responsible for the most unreasonably aggressive dog I’ve dealt with in 10 years. 
OOG!!!

Addendum Two:
Jethro & The Chickens
The neighborhood chickens have heard the legend of the three-legged grim reaper and are avoiding his presence at all cost....no wait...I can’t back that up. 

Here look.

Avoid please the gravitationally challenged cherry tree awaiting transplant for a moment, but note the distance from the carport on the left to the pile of cinder blocks on the right. For your info, the front door of this residence is around the corner of the carport, so every time I walk the dogs, we come out this way.

So, who has decided to nest on her eggs in the cinder block condo? 

Getting the evil eye from my resident hen

Yeah, so that happened. Now, Jethro loses his shit 2x per day, every day, cause he can smell that chicken!!! But I won’t let him investigate. 
OOG!!!

*Ed Note: OOG= Only On Guam

Orphan Chicks & King Jethro the Wicked

On a warm summers evening a few years ago in Corpus Christi, Texas, I was out walking Jethro the Wonder Dog in the prarie-esque field behind my VTF. (His real, full name is Leroy Jethro Gibbs, but if you are reading this you already know that)
He was off leash because, I'm lazy, and also the field was huge and it was past duty hours and no one was around. Go Navy. 

My clinic in Corpus was just down the road from the base golf course, So there was quite a bit of open space on what was an otherwise very small installation. What you might not know, unless you've been to South Texas, is that there is an indigenous breed of hare that is rather large, called the black-tailed jackrabbit, and the open space on the Naval Station was home to many, many of these giant eared lagomorphs.

On this particular evening, there was a hare, going about his rabbit business, about 100 meters away. Once Jethro spotted this creature, he was off like he was shot out of a high-powered rifle. You would think he was a greyhound chasing Swifty around the track instead of a three-legged coonhound. Within mere seconds they both had disappeared over the hills and on to the golf course. Muttering profanities I got behind the wheel of my truck and drove to chase them down, which I did about eight minutes later and about 2 miles away. I may or may not have broken base speed limit/stop sign/driving off road regulations during the pursuit. 

I tell you this story just to let you know that although Jethro's breed was created for hunting, that's the only time in our four years together that he has gone after another creature. He co-habitated with my mom's cat very nicely and is the world's most chill dog.

Jethro hard at work

Until Guam

Now this particular island, like many countries across southeast Asia, has a semi-wild chicken population, and every couple of houses out here has a gaggle of chickens upon the yard. Gaggle? Troop? Clowder?
No, The correct answers are brood or clutch or peep. I finally understand why the little Marshmallow chickens are called peeps. Thank you Wikipedia. So glad I went through four years of vet school to look up the collective noun of animals on the web.

But I digress. Chickens, we got shit tons. Jethro, he loves to chase the chickens. Now as any fan of the Rocky movies knows --catching a chicken is not that easy to do. And I figure Jethro being handy capable and all, the chickens would be okay even if he did manage to get loose to go after them. 

Score one for Jethro, zero for dad. Couple of weeks ago while I was working in the yard, Jethro wandered off... soon after I heard some loud squawking and a very high-pitched cackle and I see Jethro bounding back to me across the yard with a bird in his mouth. Needless to say I was stunned. Jethro sat before me presenting his catch, a live, unharmed black hen held firmly in his mouth. He was so proud. My first problem came when I realized I had never taught Jethro an ‘out’ command. Didn't seem practical. The boy would never fetch a ball or Frisbee or a stick... he never brought me anything that I needed to tell him to let go of. He knew ‘leave it’ as a command to stop doing what he was doing. But that didn’t help in this case. About five minutes of struggling later, I freed the startled but intact chicken from the mouth of the hound. 

Crime Scene Photo

Now, we come to the drama of today's walk. While passing a parked Jeep, we met a family of chickens, the rooster, mottled black-and-white much the same coloration as Jethro,  the momma hen, all black with flecks of blue, and 2 chicks, one black & one white. They were older offspring and you can usually tell the age of the chick by how many are in the gaggle. Whereas a family group might start out with five or six little fuzzy guys, over time they become four or three or two or one. And unlike how Morgan Freeman lied in that penguin movie, they don't just fade away.

Upon seeing Jethro, and Jethro seeing them, the family scattered in a flash.  They hadn’t, however, worked out a rally point, because mom, dad and the white chick ran under the Jeep, and the black chick ran in the completely opposite direction across the street, eventually managing to find a little bush to hide under.  I'll admit I did have a pang of guilt about possibly creating an orphan chick scenario. (See above regarding predation.) It does kind of go against my oath, the animal suffering and all. 
A future... I figured that chick by himself didn't have one. But as we moved away, after a short time, the family got back together and reunited. 

But the real reason I tell this story is what happened in the intervening few minutes when they were separated....the mamma started yelling, loudly, staccato, shrieking, at that rooster. Cause it was his fault that the little guy ran the wrong way from ‘danger’, and she was giving the rooster the business.  I also imagined it was the same hen Jethro had gotten earlier, so

I pictured the conversation including lots of I TOLD YOU that dog is a killa!!

A real-life henpecked male.  Nature, gotta love it.