I wish I was going to tell you a quaint sequel to that vintage early reader. The one where the hen makes the bread all by herself and so ends up eating it all by herself, to the dismay of all the creatures who wouldn’t help her do all the work.
But no, this story is entirely different. I actually wondered if I should rather entitle it, “Circus in the Suburbs.” You see, sometimes I just revel in the fact that I am living the dream. It’s all as romantic as I imagined it would be, cracking freshly laid eggs for breakfast and all. Other times I have to ask myself: “Taryn, what on earth were you thinking, if you were even thinking!?”
When we got the chickens, I didn’t realise it, but I was all in so long as they were healthy. The moment one of them looked a little ‘off’ I realised I had bitten off more than I could chew. Our Gardener and I discussed the symptoms back and forth and I marched indoors to ask the internet for advice. Two very knowledgeable gents talked me through the symptoms, scenarios, possible causes and treatments on their U tube channel and since the buck stopped with me (I’m the one who begged for the girls), I began to collect everything I would need, waving goodbye to my peaceful afternoon.
“You need to lubricate the vent,” they said. “Wear surgical gloves, you’ll be glad you did,” they added. My eyeballs bulged. The rest was a blur: Epsom salts, warm baths, warm towels and so on and so on, all to be repeated until the extra large egg has been passed if, indeed, the hen is dealing with an egg compaction and that’s why she is walking like she is nine months pregnant.
It’s a great pity I carried out the initial procedure alone because I think people would have paid good money to watch me playing nurse. There I was, sitting on my haunches in the chicken coop, surgical glove in position, lubricant on the end of one quivering finger, poorly hen in the crook of the other arm like a feathery rugby ball. A towel draped over my shoulder and a little red bath tub finished off the scene nicely.
I saw the vent instantly, pouting repeatedly beneath its pope’s nose, reaching with all its might for my finger as if it knew salvation was nigh. It was mind over matter folks, and I was working with all my might to be efficient as well as respectful of our poor hen, it’s not like she asked to be in this predicament. Just at the point when I had absolutely no hands, two observing hens jumped onto my back and craned nervously over my shoulder to look into my glasses before pecking my bare shoulder with enquiring enthusiasm. As if that wasn’t enough, a third stander-by committed to attack my bottom until I had a free hand again to wipe my brow (not with the gloved hand) and shoo her away.
At this point, a friend drove in to drop off my children. On any normal day she would have come to find me and we’d have had a little catch up, but no, on the day I needed so many reinforcements, she drove in, the children disembarked and she drove out. I was on my own.
I would love to tell you that an amazing thing happened next but it didn’t. And in a way, that actually is the amazing thing because those chicken experts on U-tube said that if I didn’t act quickly I would have only forty-eight hours until the end of my hen; but we are at like one hundred and twenty hours now. After a couple of baths and a few tablespoons of extra virgin coconut oil our little, red hen is bright eyed, eating and drinking, even if a little out of sorts.
Friends of ours have introduced us to All Creatures Great and Small, and one child piped up proudly, “You are sort of like James Herriot these days, Mom.” Yes Love, exactly like him. I’m just so thankful I asked for hens and not cows.

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