Bumblefoot and Other Delightful Diseases

   As any parent knows, tending sick little ones is part of the job. Raising chickens is no different. I have "lost" seven chickens so far during my stint as a chicken tender. I worried incessantly about hawks, owls, raccoons and dogs, but the chicks and hens that died under my watch all suffered less dramatic fates--except Randy the Rooster, of course. I lost a baby chick from my first brood, a runt who failed to thrive. I agonized over what to do, tried to intervene in a compassionate matter, and ultimately probably made "sicky chicky's" death more difficult that it needed to be.

A Chicken Catcher

   My first experience with chicken disease was a delightful condition called bumblefoot. Last summer, I noticed a badly limping chicken and of course, I had to manage the situation. After chasing her around the run for a half an hour, I finally caught her with the chicken catcher after hooking the fence about a dozen times. I have gotten much better with the chicken catcher, but there is no substitute for a quick grab at the feet with your hand. I completely understand why the chicken catchers are some of the highest paid workers at the poultry plant. The best method is to wait until they are settled in at night and then calmly lift them off the roost. I have no patience for that, of course. After they are caught, most chickens calm into total submissiveness. I turned the hen upside down and examined her foot, which had an ugly, large bump right in the middle that looked like a hard, dirty callous. 

Bumblefoot. It can look worse, much worse.

   I released the hen and got out my books. Nothing. I moved to the internet (how did I figure out anything before Google?) and eventually found a picture that looked just like my hen's foot. She had something called bumblefoot, a humorous-sounding disease which I quickly learned could be fatal if left untreated. It might also spread to the rest of the flock. Bumblefoot is a staph infection that can get deep into the chicken's foot. After all, they spend their lives scratching, roosting and walking around in poop. The infection must be opened to remove the infection and then the wound dressed to keep it clean. Oral antibiotic treatment was also suggested, but since that does not meet organic standards I didn't consider that an option. I read stories about poultry freaks who spent $300 per foot at the vet. Again, not an option.
   So I researched home treatment methods, assembled my tools and prepared my operating area. I piled my flat-topped feed containers on top of each other for a table, grabbed a towel to cover and calm the hen, arranged some overhead lighting and closed the cat door/escape hatch. My tools included an x-acto knife, tweezers, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, antibiotic ointment, gauze and medical tape. Terrified of infecting myself with staph (bumble hand?), I had to go out to the pharmacy for nitrile gloves, as we only had latex gloves in the house and I am allergic to latex.
   After I caught the hen again (no, not at night on the roost, I chased her around again but this time enlisted my husband to help), I brought her into the operating room, covered her with the towel and grabbed my knife. I began with a delicate X in the center of the...uh, bumble. The was a thick white mass that I could neither squeeze nor tweeze out; some of it came out as the "ribbons of pus" that I had read about. Ugly, and putrid too. The hen was a champ. She didn't even flinch until I decided I had to excise the whole thing and began cutting around the edge of the entire 3/4-inch lump. Chickens feet are very tough and there are not a lot of nerves until you cut too deep. At that point, the poor hen flinched. And bled. A lot. Horrified, I gave up temporarily. I poured peroxide on the wound--you have never seen such fizzing--stopped the bleeding and created an impressive wrap for her foot. I put her into isolation: a dog cage I borrowed from a neighbor. Then I went inside and sterilized my tools and myself.
   I think I attempted to treat Bumble, as we affectionately began to call her, four or five times before I put her back in with the rest of the hens and began praying for divine healing. She was still limping about a week later, so I reluctantly caught her again and took her to the "exam room," determined not to get out my knife. Her bumblefoot was larger than ever, except it had a 1/2 inch wide head on it, rather like the biggest white head you can imagine. It was an "aha" moment. I grabbed my tweezers and pulled out the entire infection in one enormous plug. More blood, but this time it felt like a release. I applied more peroxide and antibiotic ointment, and wrapped her foot.

Broilers are short, stocky and breasty.

   I just knew at that point that she was going to heal. Bumble seemed to appreciate my efforts, but the rest of the hens were more paranoid around me than ever. In retrospect, I think I can pinpoint the total deterioration of my relationship with Randy the Rooster to this situation. No matter that I cured one of his hens, I had tortured her in the process.
   I learned a great deal from the bumblefoot incident. This winter, when one of the hens looked ruffled and pale--possible signs of a parasite or infection--I watched her, gave her extra treats, but left her alone. It took a couple of months, but she eventually regained her health and color and began laying again also. When one of my new baby chicks appeared not to be thriving, I prepared to compassionately cull her, rather than attempt to gas her with baking soda and vinegar like the last time. She died before I decided to wring her neck. I discovered another chick flat and cold at the bottom of the box during the first few days. A week or so later, another chick smothered when they piled up in a panic during a power outage. Finally, I lost one of my boilers to what I think was ascites, a condition caused by pulmonary hypertension as a result of their rapid growth. Broilers die from a host of diseases resulting from their amazing growth to "market size" in the space of 7-9 weeks instead of the 12-14 weeks it took 75 years ago.

  I've become a little matter of fact about dead chickens, except that each death means a loss on my investment. Right now, I'm contemplating when to butcher my broilers, since if I wait too long they will begin dying of heart attacks. So, fortunately, poultry parenting is not like parenting children. Death is an everyday part of life and sometimes, you don't treat the illness because the treatment is worse than the disease.