The Travelling Vet

7

CHICKEN

‘The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it.’

Arnold H. Glasow

When we first meet someone, so the theory goes, we only have a seven-second window to make a first impression. Given that we only get one chance at this self-portrayal, it is only natural that we desire to promote ourselves in such a way that those we meet recollect that first encounter with warmth and affection. If, for whatever reason, we fail at this, a lot of time and effort is required to alter a person’s initial perception of us. As a vet, to whom people entrust their animals, be they domestic or wild, pet or farmed, it is of the greatest importance to convey a responsible, knowledgeable and friendly professionalism from the very start.

No matter how hard we try, however, there are inevitably days when things conspire against us. The little girl’s hamster bites you as you carefully pick it up; the horse bolts past you when you open its stable; the farmer’s dog savages your leg as you get out of the car; the sat nav takes you to the wrong farm on the other side of the valley. Usually when this happens, you muddle through the awkward consultation, relieved when it is over, or jump back into the car and speed away at the first available opportunity. On occasion, though, the consultation or visit is more protracted, and then you sometimes have to steel yourself to endure one of the most awkward days of your life …

It was often said to me by older, wiser vets that farmers don’t suffer fools gladly – but why should they, when you are dealing with their livelihood? The general consensus within the veterinary profession is that you get one chance with them. If you do well, and the farmer likes you, then generosity will often flow abundantly: a joint of beef, a tray of eggs, a box of apples, home-baked scones, lunch or breakfast after the visit, or even an invitation for a day’s shooting. If it all goes badly, however, then prepare for an ear-bashing and to be rapidly escorted off the farm with the collies baying at your heels and forever after to read in the large appointments book ‘Any vet but Jon’ whenever that farmer requests a visit.

‘Jonny, I’ve booked you Mr Howard’s TB test for 8.30 a.m. on Monday,’ Jackie had said to me before she left work on Friday. ‘It’s a whole herd test so it’ll be about four hundred in total. I don’t think you’ve been there before, but it’s quite easy to find. He’s a lovely chap if he likes you, but can be quite a character if he doesn’t. I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’

It was the usual routine. Jackie would let us know any pre-booked visits for Monday morning in advance so we could either go straight from home or make sure we were in the practice early enough to get organized before the visit. TB was so rife we were inundated with testing, so every vet had at least one large test to do a week, and mine were usually on a Monday. It was very mundane work, but often provided an opportunity to meet and bond with a new client or to find out how things were going with their farm. Having been qualified two years, the TB testing was second nature, so although a boring way to start the week, it wouldn’t require any weekend reading and I wasn’t on call, so I didn’t give the visit a second thought until Sunday night, when I calculated how much time I would need to get there in the morning.

Jackie had reckoned it would take twenty minutes to get to the farm and had given me her usual, precise directions. However, it was the first time I’d visited the farm and so to make sure I wasn’t late I decided to leave the practice by 8 a.m. I arrived at a quarter to, collected my equipment and paperwork and, content I had everything I needed, set off.

Jackie’s directions were, as usual, spot on. They took me straight to the farm without a problem, so with time in hand, I decided to pull into the layby in front of the farm to organize myself in the ten minutes I had before the appointment. Satisfied that I had all my equipment in order, I pulled out, drove the 200 yards to the large tarmacked entrance of Beech Farm, and proceeded down the driveway between the post-and-rail fencing. Jersey cattle grazed in the fields on either side of the driveway, which was about 100 yards long, and flanked by a dozen 20-foot-high leylandii cypress trees, growing in two groups of six, along both sides. They had presumably been planted to afford privacy to the modern red brick farmhouse at the end of the drive.

As I approached the row of evergreens, about 20 yards from the farmhouse, an eclectic flock of about twenty chickens, of all breeds and sizes, were sauntering across the driveway from my right to left, oblivious to my arrival. They were eagerly hunting out worms and grubs, pecking and scratching on the grass border in front of the fence line. Naturally I stopped to allow them time to pass. It seemed to take them an interminable amount of time to amble the short distance, despite my dog Max’s best efforts to hurry them along, barking at them from the passenger seat of my Isuzu Trooper. From my vantage point behind the wheel, my vision was slightly obscured, but at last I could see them all attentively scratching away in the dirt off to my left and so I continued on past the trees and pulled up in front of the house.

Turning off my engine, I stepped out of my car to put on my wellington boots and waterproofs. Walking round to the boot, something caught my eye back down beyond the row of leylandii: a commotion of feathers flapping and jerking all over the place. To my horror, I instantly knew what it was, as my mind flashed back to an incident from my childhood, when I had raised and cared for my own flock of thirty chickens. Occasionally, with an ill chicken or an unwanted cockerel that was fit to eat, I had humanely dispatched them as my father had taught me to do from a young age. On one occasion, though, after I had killed a cockerel, and immediately placed it in the utility-room sink to pluck and gut it for the freezer, the decapitated bird had suddenly jumped out of the sink, over my head, and proceeded to shower the utility room’s cupboards, walls and freshly laundered clothes in blood. The neural networks in the bird’s spinal cord stimulated exaggerated muscle movements that were no longer being regulated by messages from the brain. My mother had been out at the time, so I had desperately attempted to clean up the devastation before her return.

So now, with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I knew the flapping and convulsing was not the dance of some sexually charged male in pursuit of an unsuspecting member of his harem, but rather the death throes of their large, ornate, handsome cockerel. I walked as swiftly and casually as I could back to where the deceased cockerel was calming down, praying that by some miracle it was stunned rather than dead, and desperately hoping not to attract the attention of anyone in the farmhouse. However, with its large windows facing down the drive, I was certain I could sense Mr and Mrs Howard observing me intently from the warmth of their kitchen.

Reaching the cockerel, my worst fears were realized. The motionless bird was unmistakably dead, and with tyre marks clearly discernible across his newly elongated neck, it would not require a forensic pathologist to identify the cause of his demise. I stood there frozen to the spot, numb with disbelief, replaying the last few minutes, cursing myself for not getting out of the car to chivvy the flock along to avert this very scenario. Looking down at the cockerel, I saw he was a young, stunning-looking Light Sussex–Maran cross. Or at least he had been. I cursed him for selecting me and my vehicle as his chosen method of extinction. It was a completely unintentional accident, but I felt wretched, and this was the worst possible start to a five-hour-plus farm visit for a client I had never met before. Jackie’s words rang in my ears: ‘He’s a lovely chap if he likes you, but can be quite a character if he doesn’t. I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’

Somehow I wasn’t so sure, now. Even if I was escorted off the farm there and then, the best I could hope for would be the relentless gibes I would receive on every farm visit for the next month, since the story would certainly be retold at the Wednesday night skittle league, in which many of our clients participated. It would doubtless spread across the county and farming community like wildfire … I looked around surreptitiously. No one had come out of the farmhouse to greet me or to see what was going on. Maybe they weren’t in the kitchen, maybe they weren’t even in the house – maybe this whole event had passed them by completely, and they didn’t even know I had arrived? On the other hand maybe they were even now peering out of one of the windows, watching and waiting to see how I would react.

I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I pick up the deceased cockerel or leave it where it was? Maybe I could throw it in among the trees, out of sight, where a fox would inevitably remove it in the night. Or should I present it to Mr and Mrs Howard and fess up to my accidental killing of their undoubtedly highly prized cockerel? I knew what I should do, but every fibre of my being wanted to absolve myself of the crime and when the cockerel’s absence was finally noted in a day or two, the blame would squarely be put at the feet of Mr Fox. Furthermore, the prospect of ringing their front door bell and greeting Mr or Mrs Howard for the first time, introducing myself as the new vet and then highlighting my skills at ending rather than saving life by handing over one of their stock that I had so efficiently assassinated, did not exactly fill me with joy.

Still undecided, I found myself bending down and picking the cockerel up. At the same moment, my quandary was independently resolved when a voice suddenly called out from behind me.

‘Good morning, young man. You must be the vet that’s come to do our TB test.’

I jumped up, startled, and turned around in the direction of the declaration, the deceased cockerel limply hanging in my left hand. Like a naughty little boy caught red-handed with something nefarious, I tried hiding the cockerel behind my back.

‘Yes,’ I replied somewhat sheepishly, struggling to find the words to explain why I was holding his dead cockerel.

‘What you got there?’ was the question that naturally followed as he walked across the gravel drive towards me.

‘Um … I’m afraid, that I, er … appear to have had a bit of an accident … with, um, your cockerel. It seems I accidentally ran him over as I was coming down the driveway. I’m – so – incredibly – sorry,’ I mumbled, preparing myself for the berating I knew I was about to receive.

‘Oh? Ha, well that was very skilled of you! Which one is it, let’s have a look at him.’ Shocked and unsure of this response, I dutifully obeyed. Reaching Mr Howard, I handed over my accidental quarry. Mr Howard studied the bird for a moment.

‘Oh, this fella! Don’t you trouble yourself at all about that. We’ve got too many of them. The missus keeps pestering me to knock a few on the head – this one in particular she’ll be delighted to see the back of, the savage little brute. He was probably attacking your wheels, which is why you ran him over. No, I reckon you’ve done us a favour there – but don’t you go charging us, mind!’

Reeling from this unexpected reaction, I didn’t quite get Mr Howard’s joke.

‘Charge you for what?’ I enquired, confused.

‘You know, for the humane dispatch of my killer cockerel,’ he said, laughing.

‘Absolutely, of course not,’ I said quickly, mustering a smile, hugely relieved that this whole unfortunate incident was not, after all, going to destroy my morning or my reputation across the county.

‘So you must be Jonathan. I’m Giles Howard, pleasure to meet you,’ he said, changing the subject as he switched the carcass into his left hand so he could hold out his right for me to shake.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Howard. Sorry again about the cockerel. It’s not exactly how I like to meet a client for the first time!’ I responded, trying to match his good humour.

‘Honestly, don’t worry about it, it was going to happen sooner or later and, as I say, he was a vicious little thing. The wife will be thrilled, and I see you ran over his head and neck, so the rest of the carcass is fine.’ He walked over to the side door of the house, which opened into a large washroom. ‘Mabel,’ he shouted. ‘The vet’s here, and he’s done us a good turn.’

Moments later Mrs Howard appeared. ‘Morning,’ she said, greeting me and then turning to Giles. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said Jonathan’s done us a favour. He’s run over Sid Vicious for you.’ He held up the trophy. ‘Reckon he’s done a pretty professional job, too. We could have it for dinner.’

‘Glad someone can do your dirty work for you!’ Mabel said with a laugh, then turned to me. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, but thank you all the same. I’ve been trying to get Giles to sort him out for ages. He seemed to know when I hadn’t got my wellies on, and then came out of nowhere, attacking my ankles. I’ve taken to go outside with a broom to shoo him away!’

Tying some bailer twine around its neck, Giles hung the cockerel among the coats and jackets on the rack by the door out of the reach of the three dogs that had rushed to greet their master ahead of Mabel.

‘Fancy a coffee before we start, Jonathan?’ he asked.

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I replied, still trying to process the emotional rollercoaster of the previous ten minutes.

As I followed them into the kitchen, Mabel chipped in: ‘Giles, how about some bacon and eggs for this young man? He seems like he needs fattening up. I bet he barely has time to feed himself, being so busy.’

‘Sounds like a great idea, and I’ll join him. We need to get our strength up for the job ahead.’

And there it was, I had somehow found myself in favour with this delightful couple, and their kind generosity was abounding. I certainly hadn’t earned it, and I would definitely have preferred not to have started the visit by running over their cockerel, regardless of how vicious it was, but what I had perceived as a terrible first impression was in fact the perfect icebreaker. Tucking into my bacon and eggs and supping on my coffee, complete with fresh Jersey milk, I gushed with gratitude at their kindness, confident the TB test would proceed routinely and without complication.

It did and when I returned on Thursday morning, three days later, to read the test, I was invited to stay for lunch afterwards. With a twinkle in his eye, Mr Howard informed me we would be having roast chicken. It was delicious, but as I devoured it gratefully, I decided not to enquire whether it was Sid Vicious.

Chickens: fast facts

Gallus gallus domesticus: The domesticated chicken

Distribution: Chickens are a sub-species of the red jungle-fowl, originally found in South-East Asia, from Nepal down to Indonesia, but now globally dispersed.

Names: A male aged less than a year is called a ‘cockerel’, over a year ‘cock’ or ‘rooster’. A young female is a ‘pullet’, then a ‘hen’. The young are ‘chicks’. Adult chickens produced for meat are called ‘broilers’, those produced for eggs ‘layers’. A group of hens is called a ‘brood’.

Life span: About 5–10 years.

Habitat: Originally the jungle, but now wherever humans inhabit.

Diet: Chickens are omnivores in the wild, or free ranging, scratching about in the soil for seeds or insects, or eating lizards, snakes and mice. In the broiler industry, their food is the most scientifically researched of any nutrition in the world.

Incubation: 21 days: a hen will lay a clutch of about 12 eggs, which won’t start developing until she starts incubating them, all 12 thus hatching together.

Weight: 30–50 grams at birth, growing up to 0.5–4.5 kg as adults.

Growth: Males and females are considered fully grown at 1 year.

Body temperature: 40.6–41.7 °C.

Chickens for food: More than 50 billion chickens are reared annually for meat and eggs (that’s 6.5 chickens per person). Of these, 74 per cent of broilers and 68 per cent of layers are produced intensively. In the commercial UK broiler industry it now takes just 30 days for a bird to reach its slaughter weight of 1.5 kg (in 1925 it took 120 days), and free-range or organic broilers will be slaughtered at 100 days. Commercial laying hens will produce up to 300 eggs in their first year, but after this the rate drops to below commercial viability, when they are slaughtered and used in processed foods. In some other countries, sadly, when laying drops off, flocks are sent into a forced moult by a complete withdrawal of food and often water for up to 14 days, which reinvigorates egg-laying: a major welfare concern.

Conservation: With a present conservative estimate of 19 billion chickens worldwide, they are certainly not a threatened species in terms of extinction – but in terms of their welfare the situation remains urgent. As the single largest source of human protein globally, a commercialized poultry industry is inevitable; but we have a duty to uphold the highest welfare standards in this, as in all meat industries. So if you have the time and the inclination, why not give an ex-commercial hen a happy retirement by visiting www.bhwt.org.uk/rehome-some-hens?.