Tales From Prospect House

Delilah the hen certainly made an impact on my life!

IT was inevitable that Lucy and I, both working with animals at Prospect House, both with a passion for animals, would acquire a menagerie of our own.

Within 18 months, the practice cottage, Willow Wren, over the Downs in Ashton, became awash with animals. Some failed cases; some abandoned pets. All were destined to become part of our lives.

There was one proviso: they had to get along with the others. In the case of our feathered friends, it meant not getting in a flap!

Gertie, the goose given to me by a grateful farmer after a difficult calving, was the first avian addition.

The back garden at Willow Wren was narrow but long. It was Gertie’s domain, where she paraded through the herbaceous borders, mowed the grass and invaded the vegetable plot to gobble up the sprouts Lucy had been attempting to grow. (No loss there; I’m no lover of sprouts.) But her territorial supremacy ended with the arrival of Delilah.

That was the result of an appointment booked by Beryl for me to see a moth-eaten ex-battery chicken by that name.

Beryl forewarned me what to expect in her customary manner as a loud whisper, hand over her mouth as if divulging some secret MI5 espionage plot.

“Sophie and Trudy run a refuge for battered . . .” Beryl paused in mid-whisper until the two ladies she was referring to had gone into the waiting-room. “Women?” I prompted. “Chickens,” Beryl replied. She went on to say that they ran the Westcott Hen Welfare Trust, rescuing ex-battery hens and rehoming them. Delilah was one. “She’s in a bit of a state.” Sophie slid the chicken from a carrying crate.

The bird sank on to the consulting table, reluctant to move – a caramel-brown pile of feathers from which poked a scrawny, featherless neck.

“They’re often like this to start with,” Trudy explained. “The confusion and bewilderment disappears once they taste freedom. It’s wonderful to see.”

“But this one’s still poorly,” Sophie said. “We checked her over on arrival. Clipped her long nails.”

“A common problem due to standing on wire,” Trudy interjected. “And she’d been pecked quite badly, hence her scrawny neck.”

I decided to check Delilah over to see if I could work out what was wrong with her. It was a challenge, as these two ladies were experts in their field and probably knew more about hen welfare than I did.

I gently eased my left hand under the bird, running it down her keel bone and lifting her up.

“She does seem a little on the light side.”

“She weighs just over two kilograms,” Sophie said. “About right for a commercial hybrid.”

OK, I thought to myself. Point made.

I opened Delilah’s beak to peer down her throat.

“We couldn’t see any white spots when we looked,” Sophie said.

“So we’ve ruled out candida,” Trudy declared.

There was a tut – or was it a cluck? – from both ladies.

Feeling decidedly henpecked, I moved on to Delilah’s feet. I anticipated a comment and swiftly received it. Sophie assured me there was no sign of bumblefoot.

“We’d have spotted any obvious swelling of the joints or abscesses when we clipped her nails, wouldn’t we, Trudy?”

Nevertheless I felt obliged to take a look. Both legs did appear to be a bit swollen, the scales on them somewhat reddened.

I remarked on this and both ladies peered down to see for themselves.

“We often get traumatised feet,” Sophie said.

“From lying on the wire floors,” Trudy added. “And scaly leg?” I queried. “We’ve never seen a case,” Sophie answered.

“Well, you’re seeing one now,” I said, trying not to sound superior.

In between some of Delilah’s scales I’d spotted a couple of tiny mites. These parasites can be responsible for swelling of legs, lameness and even loss of toes. This was causing the hen’s reluctance to move and inability to forage.

Treatment was simple – an injection of a mite repellent.

I have to confess to sounding far too smug as I explained this to the ladies. Then they reminded me they ran a hen rescue centre.

“We’ve sixty rescue birds,” Trudy said. “All at risk.”

“You’ll need to visit and inject the lot,” Sophie said.

“They’re free range and will need catching up,” Trudy added. “So you’ll have your work cut out.”

Both ladies pierced me with beady, bright eyes.

The effect was immediate. I stopped crowing and offered to re-home Delilah.

More next week.