Chicken Spa Day in February

The situation had become untenable. I’d delayed because it had been crazy cold and windy. But three of the chickens—one pullet and two French Morans—had situations and expected me to tidy their bottoms. And so it finally happened. Spa day in February.

Usually, I carry out a 3-gallon bucket of warm water with Epsom salts. Pour the mixture into some form of another bucket that will fit a hen. And then dip her in like a teabag, holding her butt down into the water, all the while murmuring and telling her she is safe and this is for her own good, which she does not believe for one nanosecond. Particularly when, with plastic gloved hands, I begin to encourage the large chunks of malodorous chicken sh*t to loosen itself from her bottom’s feathers.

This—ugh—splashy bonding process usually lasts about 15 minutes. It feels longer for both hen and me and then, after an unconvincing towel drying, she goes back to her girlfriends to complain about the less-than-acceptable treatment she has received. And no “thank you” to me even though she might note that she is a good deal lighter at her back end. But far be it from me to feel underappreciated by the hens when they have plenty of underappreciation to dish back at me.

Point being, I am not going to sit outside, on a cement stoop, holding a hen in rapidly cooling water that is blackening with chicken manure on a windy, 5-degree day. I’m just not.

Fortunately, our friend and farm advisor, Doug, commented passingly, after yet another day of (re)building the coop situation, why not take the hens into the bathroom in the house and clean them up in the shower?

Well. The last time I had a chicken in the house, said chicken (Schtude) was dying of a bobcat attack. And before that, a young pullet, Asa, was valiantly attempting to survive a hawk attack. And before that was Big Red, dying of cancer. Oh! And then the time I had a chicken in the entry hall in a box, waiting for her vet appointment, and I came up to my office and noted a lot of tiny red mites falling onto my desk. By now you might have an idea of why chickens are not allowed in this house anymore.

However. A shower hour did make sense. I wouldn’t have to lug “warm” water back and forth two-to-three times per hen. No wind. And it would be warmer than 5 degrees. The shower is in the bathroom and all enclosed. The water goes down the drain. Relatively easy to disinfect.

My first victim was the pullet. Who needs a bucket if you’re in a shower? One can hold the hen with one hand and the hand-held shower handle with the other. No full body bath. The only part of the hen that gets soaked is her bottom. Very surgical strike-like.

And then, creme de la creme…

But wait! First, a moment for context. These hens have been shivering in below 25 degree weather for weeks. They might “just” (hah) be chickens, but they do get cold and colds and frostbite. And they don’t like flapping tarps and loud noises.

So imagine being a hen swept up and carried (not fun) into a balmy 68-degree coop without wind (ooooh) and the shower might have been a smidge nerve-wracking, but it has warmed things up a bit. One’s claws look clean! And then! Yes! The creme de la creme…Low air, low heat. A hum—one might almost convince oneself it is one’s broody mother hen reassuring you that she is there—and one’s bottom is getting dry! No cold drafts! The hen relaxes. While I busily fluff her feathers, drying them with a hairdryer, her eyes kind of droop as she takes the opportunity for a nap.

Two hens in one hour. I have it down now. But it is really quite blowy out there and cold. So the third will have to wait. At which point, no doubt, others will line up for their day in the spa.