Rescue operation
A week ago we attempted to rescue the 2 hens who had their chicks in the dried up koi pond. They did not think they needed rescuing, so flapped and squawked and flew at our heads until we gave up. We left the “ramp” propped against the edge; a long gangplank wrapped in fabric for grippyness; earlier in the spring a curious chick flew itself down into the koi pond to investigate and then one by one all of its siblings paratrooped in after it. The mama exhausted herself trying to get them to fly up and out but they were too little or didn’t quite believe they could fly, and remained crowded in a puffball of madly cheeping fear until we put the gangplank down. It took mama most of the day to lead her chicks up the plank, but by evening they were nonchalantly perched on the coral reef rock surrounding the pond, almost like they wanted the excitement of falling in and walking the plank to get out.
The hens who laid their eggs and sat in them side by side for weeks must have been congratulating themselves for finding such a nice quiet out of the way place to have babies. But the failure of their strategy became evident soon after the chicks hatched; too little to walk up the steep plank, they were stuck foraging at the bottom of the koi pond which has not yet been cleaned out - all kinds of junk lay down there including broken glass, roof tiles, terra cotta pots, wires, old toys.
Still they seemed content, especially after we put a water dispenser down there and tossed food down to them. Every day during feeding time one hen would flap up to perch on the coral reef rock wall that surrounds the pond, and start clicking loudly, either to get my attention (Hey don’t forget about us over here!) or giving out the alert to her sister hen and the chicks (Lunch is here!) or both.
The hens reacted negatively to every relocation effort, though the neighborhood was far from safe. Roosters flew down into the koi pond to pin one hen or the other beneath them, kicking and tumbling the babies and occasionally killing any chick that doesn’t get out of the way fast enough. Something else was killing chicks too; the combined broods of eight chicks was slowly whittled down to just four by the time the rains came. Later I would see what. Ugh.
We should have tried harder to relocate them; our failure to anticipate the livability of the bottom of the dry pond in the event of rain almost cost the remaining chicks their lives.
The morning after the first big storm I found the hens and chicks pitifully perched on the top of a mound of broken chunks of concrete, the only part of the base of the pond not submerged in standing rainwater. One hen sat on the chicks to keep them warm; the other staying near in apparent solidarity.
In between lulls in the rainstorms, which dumped a month’s worth of rain in a matter of hours and flooded streets not just all over town but apparently the whole country, I had the h climb down with a concrete box open on one side and stuffed with warm straw. He placed it so it would not collect rainwater; as he did so the hens led the chicks to the point in the pond bottom farthest away from him, a place flooded with debris and almost no real estate above the water level. It was heartbreaking to see the little ones leap and flap and stumble through puddles of cold water, cheeping shrilly for their mama. They lined up on a log that jutted from the water, pressed close together for warmth. Above them on the edge of the pond the sister hens clucked and scolded and cajoled.
We left the sturdy dry box in the pond right at the preferred nesting spot of the sister hens, hoping once we’d vacated the area the hens would get curious, or at least tired of being wet, and return with their little brood to their higher ground perch, find the box and stay safe and warm during the rainy, windy night.
But in the morning I found the four little ones clinging for their lives to the mostly submerged log they had claimed for their perch as the h set up their refuge, which was totally unused. They were a sorry sight, bedraggled little puffballs of misery. I went to get the h.
I wasn’t totally surprised - chickens are curious but cautious - it takes awhile to win their trust and a dry safe haven from the storm was not something they were prepared to accept without evidence it was safe. A refuge that appeared in the past 12 hours, delivered by a giant who had once tried to steal the babies (which is how the hens saw the first rescue attempt) was not going to cut it.
We have to do something, those babies aren’t going to survive the next rainstorm, I told the h. I peered out the living room window overlooking the pond and saw a sister mama flap down and balance on the log, tucking the chicks closely under her, trying to keep them warm.
We agreed they had to be evacuated immediately, no matter how much the hens flew at our heads. We donned knee high boots and the h climbed in and waded over to the log where the chicks sat, unmoving, even their cheeps quieted. Then, maybe because the situation had become extreme and the hens and the chicks really had no good choices left, the simplest answer was the one that worked - the h picked up the log the chicks stood on and handed it up and out of the pond to me. The chicks shifted a little but clutched the log; the mamas warbled from the pond walls, watching us closely, but did not move.
I took the log and lay it with its feathered cargo on the ground next to the pond then retreated a few feet. The sister hens rushed over and herded the waterlogged babies, stunned with fatigue, uncertainty and cold into the brush. I put down some food and the chicks tumbled over each other to eat, their baby fuzz standing on end. The sun came out and they all sat in the warmth quietly ruffing out their necks and drying their feathers.
All seemed well until the evening when the mama hen panicked, stalking back and forth in clear anxiety about where to bed down for the night. The chicks confusedly followed her while I followed them, and before I knew it the four babies were clinging to the edge of the rocks at the top of the pond, preparing to jump down to the only home they knew, even though it was under water. I retreated so as not to drive them into jumping in, and after dragging a few different boxes with straw around the edge of the pond left them to their devices. Finally the sister hens squatted next to each other at the edge of the pond amidst the bamboo and the babies settled under them.
In the morning all four were alive and cheeping for breakfast, and they mingled with the flock at large during the afternoon feeding. All was well.
Later that night we had sushi delivered. As I headed back up the driveway with our food, I saw a rat scurry across the driveway, dragging its disgusting tail behind it. It was huge, the biggest rat I’ve ever seen. I seized a loose stone, wound up and threw it hard but it had disappeared into the brushy campo on the side of the driveway opposite the house.
Then I heard it - a faint shrill cheeping. I don’t know if I have some sort of mama echolocation device in my ear or what, but after ten minutes of searching the little forest that separates the house from the road I found a tiny puffball chick sitting among the bamboo crying for its mama, who clucked at it from the branches directly above. No way could I leave it there screaming for help, not with that huge rat less than 60 feet away, and never mind the huge wall between them - I’ve seen rats scale walls like they are nothing.
I caught the chick in my palms, the hens protesting all the way. I’ll bring him back, I promised, like an idiot. Then I brought him inside. It cheeped loudly for such a tiny thing; as long as I held it cupped in both palms it stayed quiet. So the h fed me sushi, then held the chick while I fed him sushi. Now the chick rests in a salad bowl filled with alfalfa and a warm towel. In the morning I’ll feed and water him and return him to his mama and three siblings and see how it goes.
I spent most of Saturday hauling roosting and nesting box materials up to the chicken coop; hopefully we can get the place in shape to start luring the flock to it’s new/old home tomorrow. Another big storm is coming - just as with the last one I got a notification on my phone warning of high winds and flash floods in the next 36 hours, but even without the warning I can feel the rain on its way. The temperature has dropped and there is no wind at the moment - there is an untrustworthy stillness - the very air breathes danger. It’s just like the last time but now we are more ready, I hope.
