Woes and ailments...

Mostly the animals on the farm are quite healthy.  Despite that fact, we have a good relationship with a wonderful large animal veterinarian.  She is young, brilliant, pretty, and very capable.  She is also kind, and willing to answer a text message from me on a Sunday night when I have a concern.  I try not to abuse such a privilege, and am most grateful to know I can get her expert advice if I need to. 

Last week she came to give everyone a check up, and dole out vaccinations where needed.  She fretted over the state of Chanel's hooves.  "See how they are all bruised?" she asked. I didn't. She showed me, and they are cracked, too.  "It's just age, like when peoples skin gets all fragile and is easily damaged," she explained.

And Abraham.  Poor little dude.  Last year he began having some problem with his hooves. Something called "white line disease," which is apparently common for donkeys.  At the same time his regular farrier, (hoof trimmer) was injured and could not work for several months while he healed. We found a different farrier, who was very nice, and he worked diligently to try to help Abraham with his troubles.  But the donkey's hooves looked horrible, and the shape of his hooves was making him move oddly and hold his legs in a strange way.  The farrier explained to me that this was a process, but I was concerned.  And Abraham was a brat for the new farrier, when he was always an angel for the original man. The vet noticed how he was standing and asked, "What do you think about his feet?" I said, "I wish I could have my old farrier back, I'm worried." She suggested I call him.  I knew he was busy, and that my two animals were small potatoes for him.  "He likes you," she said, "Call him."  So I did.  And he came right out.  Abraham stood stock still, practically offering his old friend his feet to work on. The farrier trimmed and cut and filed, and when he was done he told me the donkey might be sore for a few days because he had changed the way his hooves hit the ground and it might affect his joints.  About an hour after he left I looked outside and saw this: 

 Abraham was running. He bucked and dodged, danced and reared and ran some more.  He had not moved faster than a walk in months. Chanel got excited and did a little running herself.  I was overjoyed that Abraham felt well enough to celebrate.  

Meanwhile, Celeste had a skin irritation on her udder.  The doctor diagnosed a staph infection, and left me with a pile of needles, syringes, and a bottle of antibiotics. This meant I was giving a shot to the goat every day for a week, and wearing gloves while I milked her.  There was also a topical spray to soothe her.  She was a good sport about all of it, and looks much better now.  

While the vet was here she kindly castrated the Click and Clack, the new barn cats.  She gave them a tranquilizer and then one by one, on the kitchen table, she did the deed. It took mere moments, and cost a fraction of what my small animal veterinarian would have charged.  I tucked them into a crate until they were good and awake, and begging for supper. They never missed a beat. 

Harrison Ford, my beautiful, sweet, rooster was moving a bit slowly last week.  I  noticed he was resting in the pasture, where normally  he spent the entire day running and scratching and taking care of his ladies.  Then I noticed his comb and wattles were pale.  They got more pale by the day. 

I picked him up and looked him all over. I wondered if he was infested with mites or lice. I found a few external parasites, but not many. I treated him anyway.  I tucked him into a dog crate on a bed of soft hay so he could rest. I gave him diced beef liver to build his blood. I have him yogurt in case his intestines needed a bacterial boost. I called the vet, and she gave me permission to inject him with penicillin, which I did.  After three days he was paler and weaker.  In general, with chickens, once you notice they are sick, it's pretty much too late to help them.  But I tried.  I decided I'd let him go back with the flock, so he could die in the familiar coop where he was born, surrounded by his girls.  I tucked him into a cozy corner with a bowls of food and water.  Every few hours I check, expecting him to be gone.  But he is still with us.  He moves around a bit, which encourages me, but he is pale and weak, and I doubt he will pull through. Still, where there is life, there is hope, and I am hopeful. He's the nicest rooster I've ever had.  

Though most days the animals are hale and hearty, it's been a spell of care taking the critters.