Cluckinghen Hospital - Pumphrey Wing, medical update

'Poor Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Poor, poor...'
'Stop!' I say. 'We did that yesterday. Today, we need to do a medical update. Your fans will have moved beyond the 'sympathy' phase and onto the 'gory detail' phase by now.'
'You're not going to take photos, are you?' says Pumphrey. 'Only I haven't had time to do my make-up this morning and my roots are showing.'
'They aren't roots,' I say. 'They are bum fluff tufts. And no, I'm not taking photos. I don't approve of car crash media.'
'Flum tum buffs?' repeats Pumphrey (she's been going heavy on the anti-biotics and pain-killers the last couple of days so isn't wholly co-herent. Nothing new there, then...)
'Bum fluff tufts,' I say carefully. 'You've been out of the reach of Mrs Slocombe for 2 days and already your bottom feathers are re-growing. Isn't that fab?'
'I'll say,' says Pumphrey, 'it's been mighty cold this winter, yee-haa, Calamity Pumphrey, yes sirree!'

Good grief, I think.

'So what's the plan, Stan?' continues Pumphrey. She has settled very nicely into the new hospital wing. I purchased a large rabbit cage yesterday, 2 feet wide by 3 feet long by Mrs Pumphrey high plus 4 inches. It has an easy clean plastic base, an easy access up and over side entrance large enough for big chicken removal and replacement, a deep bowl for food, a shallow bowl for more food and a drinking bottle. I lined the base with newspaper, shredded some more newspaper as scratch about medium, added some straw for a nest, put water in the deep bowl and dried food in the shallow bowl. I draped a towel artfully over one end to provide a privacy area, tucked the roosting bars into the corner and added some greens, sunflower seeds and apple.
'What about the drinking bottle,' said Mrs Pumphrey, eyeing the drinking bottle.
'Well, it's a bit surplus to requirements, isn't it?' I said. 'It's for rabbits, not hens.'
'Pity for it to go to waste, though,' said Pumphrey. 'Tell you what, fill it up with gin and you can hang it on the wall for an optic.'
'I don't think so,' I said.

Within two hours, the hospital looked as if a hurricane had blown through and stopped for a party on its way.
'I was just rearranging things to my taste,' said Pumphrey.

I removed the flimsy food and water bowls and replaced them with harder-to-kick-over bowls. I refilled them both, re-made the nest, changed the water soaked newspaper and re-located the roosting bars. I found an egg.

That was yesterday. Things have followed a pretty similar pattern for today. I found another egg (although it did look like it had come through the oviduct of a hen that had had a bit of shock.) Except I haven't had to sing today. You see, yesterday, Mrs Pumphrey was a bit unsettled for the hour or so after being introduced to her hospital wing. There was a lot of pacing up and down a la institutionalised polar bear in a zoo. There was much banging of the beak up and down the sides of the cage a la prisoner rattling their tin mug against their prison bars. And it didn't stop until I sang 'Danny Boy' to her. Five times.

No kidding. I started singing to calm her down. I tried 'Nellie the Elephant' - too boisterous (the trumpety-trump, trump trump truuuuuump bit was especially startling to poor Pumphrey's sensibilities). I tried 'The Ugly Duckling' - too emotional. I tried 'Daisy, Daisy,' which was okay provided I slowed the rhythm down a tad and sang it alto rather than soprano. But it was 'Danny Boy' which hit the spot and soon she was crooning along and swaying from side to side waving a chiffon scarf in the air. It had to be 'Danny Boy' didn't it? I HATE that song. I don't even know the words that well so had to make up my own version which personally I thought was far more entertaining than the original. But as long as I kept to the tune, Pumphrey was happy.

There has been no need for singing today. Mrs Pumphrey seems settled/ resigned/ madly in love with her new surroundings. I make regular half hour visits for a chat and to share an apple or sunflower seeds. Her wound has dried up, and although it still looks disgusting, the vet assures me it is healing well and Mrs Pumphrey will probably be outward bound back to the flock in a day or two.

And then? And then I have a Mrs Slocombe mission on my mind. The Pumphrey Wing will be renamed the Slocombe Psychiatric Unit. I am armed. I have anti-peck spray, gentian violet paint, cat food and tuna. I have a pecking block and 8 anti-pecking bits which I am assured are THE thing for persuading wayward hens out of their obsessive feather pecking habits.

Me versus Slocombe. They say it takes 2 weeks to break a chicken out of its bad habits.
'Who's they?' calls Mrs Slocombe from the back garden.
'Just 'they',' I say, darkly.
'Bring it on,' says Slocombe.
'My money's on the human,' says Miggins.
'I'm already selling tickets,' says Poo.