Life Sketches by Terry Berkson
When Push Comes to Shove
It was about the middle of August last year when I noticed that one of my hens was looking lethargic. Her tail was down. Her head was drooping and her eyes were closed much of the time. Every once in a while she’d perk up and look like she was struggling. She appeared to be a bit on the heavy side, which surprised me, because I had been careful not to feed too much corn—I read it increases weight and diminishes egg production.
I consulted my antique Eschelman’s “Everything You Need to Know about Chickens” book and came away with the idea that, by her appearance and the way she was behaving, the hen was egg bound. This was not surprising, because the eggs my golden comets had been producing were so big that I couldn’t close them into a box that was labeled “Extra Large.” Maybe the additional weight she was carrying was blocking a big egg from coming down the pike.
The book made several suggestions. One was to put her in a warm place that would enable her to relax and hopefully pass the egg. Another was to put her over a steaming pan of water. Still another was to massage the chicken’s undercarriage, working the hen’s innards toward the vent. I tried the massage to no avail, and the steaming tub idea, but in no time the water cooled and left the hen sitting there with a “What’s up doc?” expression in her demeanor.
As a last resort, I called my friend and local expert, Chicken McNulty, to see if he had any ideas. When I told him what I had already done that didn’t work, he suggested that I try to break up the egg while it was still inside the chicken! He said this could work, but it could also kill the hen.
“Maybe I’ll let nature take its course,” I told him.
McNulty also suggested that I lubricate the vent using a squirt can loaded with cooking oil. I thanked him for the advice, but when I hung up I decided that I didn’t want to get that personal. Instead, I modified the steaming tub operation by filling an old Windex bottle with warm water and spraying it directly at the vent. This, I thought, would be a lot more effective than some steam drifting up toward the problem.
When I grew tired of working the handle of the Windex bottle, I got my reluctant wife, Alice, to relieve me. Between the both of us the procedure went on for a couple of hours. In spite of my having to endure spousal complaints, no egg was delivered.
In fact, the chicken appeared to like all the extra attention. She even seemed to bond to me—when I let her go free—by waddling behind as I made my way from the coop to the house. At one point, when I was sitting at a table on our back deck, she jumped up on a chair to join me. But, the egg I was hoping she’d lay never appeared and, in spite of her perky behavior due to all the attention, she soon regressed to her earlier sluggish condition.
Wadley—that’s what I began to call her—languished for a few days without producing the egg and then one morning I went out to sadly find her dead in the laying box.
Later that day, McNulty phoned to ask, “How ya doin’ with that chicken?”
“She passed away,” I told him.
“Did you take my advice about breaking the egg or injecting oil?
“No,” I answered sheepishly.
“It’s a good thing you’re a writer, because when push comes to shove, you just don’t make it as a chicken farmer.”
Terry Berkson’s articles have appeared in “New York” magazine, “Automobile” magazine and many others. His memoir, “Corvette Odyssey,” has received many good reviews: “highly recommended with broad appeal,” says “Library Journal.”
