Blue Foot: in memory

Blue Foot died today, aged just under three years. She was a chicken. Those who keep chickens will understand why we are sad.



She was so-called because her left leg was yellow, but her right leg was a slate blue colour. I got to know her well because she had a morbid fear of heights. I'm talking here of anything over five centimetres. Really. She would stand on the edge of the dog's basket, or a flower bed, and not know how to proceed. I would have to rescue her. We formed quite a relationship and she would indulge me by sitting on my lap and having a snooze.

Her fear was well-founded. When she and her five sisters arrived as young hens, the French peasant delivering them said we should clip their wings. French peasants are almost always right about these country things. Not on this occasion. He clipped their right wings quite radically. The result was that they were very unbalanced trying to flutter down from any height; Blue Foot seemed to lose her confidence more than the others, and was never the same.

Chickens are very individual. Blue Foot was a high status hen, probably at the top of the original six. But she was gentle and did not bully (as some will). Chickens have friendships. Giselle was her special friend and where one was, the other would usually be close.

Anyway, something went wrong. I found her on the floor of the chicken house one night. I left her there till morning so that she would not be disorientated. In the morning I could see from her posture and her immobility that she was injured, possibly a broken pelvis.

Now some chickens will attack a sick or injured fellow. A relatively new chicken, the inappropriately named White Angel, was indeed having a go. We took Blue Foot inside and considered our options. We know from experience that French vets won't treat chickens, at least not individually. This makes sense. The replacement cost of a chicken is a fraction of the cost of veterinarian treatment, so they just don't do it. Luckily our vet friend The Builder (I will call him that to protect the innocent) helped out and left me with a syringe and antibiotic. She stayed indoors until she was almost fully recovered. She rejoined the flock and all seemed fine, but may have fallen a second time, for after a couple of days she had a serious relapse with similar symptoms.

This was really touch-and-go. But, with with The Builder's help and several weeks of tlc she once again staged a recovery and was returned to the flock. After these absences, she and Giselle would invariably team up again. In the photo Blue Foot is on the left, Giselle on the right. This was taken just a few weeks ago during her recovery phase.



After about three weeks of normal behaviour she showed signs of weakness, but with no discernible cause. We had her back inside, but there was a steady decline. It became clear that she was likely to die this time; she soon was not able to eat, and after a while, not drink either. I would have euthanased her, but couldn't think of a non-violent way of doing this, and I didn't want her last seconds to be violent. The Builder I know would have been able to dispatch her without pain, but he was away. She was mostly unconscious during her last two days; I don't think she was suffering.

So this morning she finally stopped breathing and is buried under one of our apple trees.

This is written as a short tribute to her. I rather like the idea that, aided by industrious search robots, her name will live for some considerable time.