This is a very real Saturday morning for us. Tom got up early, I slept late, we’re chatting about last night (henceforth to be known as Jenny Lawson night, that which shall live on in family lore), there’s a chicken among us, and Tom has James Taylor on in the background.
After doctoring up her prolapsed vent for 2 weeks, googling like crazy and totally winging it, sticking her insides back in with a carefully disinfected, gloved hand… wow.
When she came out of the coop singing, my stomach dropped. I was afraid she would re-prolapse.
I checked her and she’s just fine. Whew! I can’t believe I did all that and it worked! I fixed it! All that work? Totally worth it!
Iodine and witch hazel… $10
Box of medical gloves… $8.33
My sweetest hen healed… PRICELESS.
There’s good days, then there are days when you have to push your chicken’s insides back into her butthole. Twice.
There aren’t enough disinfectant wipes in the world. I need one for my brain, but I’m not sure which hole to stick it in. I know which one I’m NOT, I’ll tell you that for sure. It wouldn’t be the fastest route to my brain anyway. Well, my friends would probably say so, anyway.