One fine day, our gardener, Visarat, brought home a handful of chicks in different shades of red, white and yellow. Their cacophony may have sounded as noise but it was music to my ears. As they matured, the biggest and most fluffy female became my favourite and I named her Poopy Booty hen.
Poopy Booty was the cynosure of all eyes. The males doted on her. They would do anything to gain her attention. While foraging together, they would let their wings down and do a little one-legged dance around her. If the other hens were jealous, they did not show it. Poopy Booty was the undisputed queen of the coop.
One day, a calamity fell on my dear hen. She was being chased by a male as she landed on the paw of our dog, Zora, who badly mauled her. Our timely intervention saved the hen, who was left with a deep gash beneath her wings. I dressed the wound and placed her in the coop. By the next morning, the wound had become worse because the other hens kept pecking on it. The blood attracted them and they would not stop mutilating one of their own.
A new coop was brought for Poopy Booty so she could live in peace. She was unharmed in the coop but the moment she stepped out of it, she would be attacked with such intensity and ferociousness that she would run about clucking in pain as if crying for help.
{{/usCountry}}A new coop was brought for Poopy Booty so she could live in peace. She was unharmed in the coop but the moment she stepped out of it, she would be attacked with such intensity and ferociousness that she would run about clucking in pain as if crying for help.
{{/usCountry}}In the eyes of her mates, she was not whole for she was wounded and damaged.
While we gave her a daily dose of medication and dressed her wound, the birds would make all our efforts go in vain. The gash widened day by day. We chased the hens away from her but the moment we were out of sight, they attacked her. The males did nothing to help Poopy. They turned a blind eye to her painful alienation from the flock. It looked like she was not going to live long. She was an enemy, the most hated entity, for no fault.
The injury was physical and emotional. She had been scarred for life.
Visarat changed her foraging time. She had become so timid that she was afraid to venture out of the coop but our constant endearments managed to draw her out. As time passed, Poopy Booty was beginning to heal. She was regaining her confidence, looking happy and solemn. This continued for a few months and the hen got used to solitude. But it was saddening to see her always alone, banished.
I was away from home for a month. When I returned, I was surprised to find that there had been a complete reversal in Poopy Booty’s fortunes. Some of the birds had been taken down by disease and the rest had accepted Poopy. I don’t know how that happened, but it seemed no less than a miracle.
She now forages with her flock after finally gaining back the acceptance of her mates. The males are back with their affectionate glances and one-legged dances. She is no longer the demure and scared bird. She is proud, confident and walks with a strut. Her misfortunes drowned, a promising future, ripe over the horizon, awaits her. Once again, she is whole, complete and unscarred. ranagill261212@gmail.com
The writer is a Hoshiarpur-based author and veterinarian