Resurrecting Sasha

When people find out that we live in the country on a ranch they get a glazed look in their eyes and their mind drifts to some far off imaginary place. They generally say something like "Wow, I've always dreamed of living on a ranch, you are so lucky."

We nod our heads knowingly and smile outwardly while laughing hysterically inwardly. These poor souls have no idea what hands-on ranching is really like. If ranching was a reality show most folks wouldn't last a week.

Now, don't misunderstand, I love our ranch and as hectic and chaotic as my daily life can sometimes be I wouldn't trade it. I just think people should know it's nothing like the Hollywood version.

For example: Yesterday I went about my usual early morning chores (in the pouring rain) of feeding all the animals and turning them out of their pens, coops and stalls so they could free range for the day. Then I rushed into the house took my shower and headed out to pick up a load feed for the animals and some groceries for us.

When I returned home I quickly put the groceries away and rushed out to check on all the animals (in the rain.) At first glance everything seemed to be normal, or as normal as things can be around here. But you see here is what people don't understand, looking after chickens, ducks, sheep, turkeys, guinea hens, geese, cattle and 10 score and 40 more other assorted living souls is a bit like running a day care center for several hundred pre-school human toddlers. They are scattered in all directions running, flying, cackling, mooing, bickering, nickering and playing and it can be utter chaos.

After I gave a precursory inspection and did a quick head count I noticed something out of the ordinary floating in the goose pond. At first I thought it was a twig but upon closer scrutiny I realized it was a chicken. She was bobbing lifeless in the water.

As anyone who knows anything about chickens will tell you they not only can't swim, they generally detest water deeper than a inch. How she wound up in the water I'll never know. My emotions volleyed between sad and angry as I fished her out. Upon closer examination I realized the little hen was one we call Sasha. We have over 40 chickens and most of them start out with names, but as they get older I often forget who is who. Then again maybe it's because I'm getting older that I tend to forget their names, however I will never forget Sasha.

With heavy heart I carried Sasha back toward the barn glancing down at her lifeless body every now and then. Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw her toes uncurl a bit. Was it possible that Sasha wasn't dead?

I rushed to the house where I tried to dry off her limp body with a towel. This is when a crash course in Poultry CPR might have come in handy. I may not be certified in Poultry CPR, but I do know that the first rule in reviving birds is to bring their metabolism up by keeping them warm, so I put Sasha on a dry towel in a cardboard box and rigged a lamp over her for extra warmth.

After half an hour her under feathers were still damp and she was not responding to my EMT treatments, so I tucked a heating pad under her.

When I checked her after an additional 15 minutes she still hadn't come around, and her body still felt damp. I had nothing to lose so I wrapped the towel around her and headed to the master bathroom where I set my blow dryer on low and turned it on her. She still had no real reaction other than an occasional involuntary twitch of her legs every now and then.

Bruce came home and knocked on the bathroom door and asked what I was doing. When I told him he opened the door and was immediately engulfed in a massive cloud of stray feathers. More were stuck on the mirror, the shower door and the walls. I had been concentrating so hard on getting Sasha dry I hadn't notice how many of her feathers were blowing about the bathroom.

I kept the blow dryer on her for about 20 minutes moving it slowly across every inch of her body. In the end, even though she was thoroughly dry she was still unresponsive.

Bruce knows better than to say anything when I'm trying to revive a sick or injured animal, but I saw the hopelessness in his eyes, so I laid Sasha back in her box with the heating pad and heat light and set about fixing dinner.

Every few minutes I checked to see how she was doing. By the time we'd finished dinner she was still laying on her side with her eyes closed.

By the time Bruce and I went to bed I was able to prop Sasha limply against the side of the box. Her head was drooped and her eyes were still closed. I was resigned to the fact she would be dead by morning.

Dead? Did I say she'd be dead by morning? Oh no! Not Sasha!

Around 1 AM I was jolted awake by what sounded like a helicopter landing on the roof of our house . I jumped out of bed dazed and confused and stumbled wildly around the bedroom trying to make sense of the noise. Bruce was sleeping soundly. Bruce always sleeps soundly. Nothing short of a blast from a steam ship whistle can wake him once he falls asleep.

The flapping, fluttering and whirling noise appeared to be coming from the bathroom and it took me a few minutes to remember that Sasha was in there. I opened the bathroom door and was assaulted by a furry of flapping wings and raspy squawking.

In a flash Sasha flapped her way past me and shot like a torpedo onto our bed where Bruce continued to sleep soundly. The commotion woke our 2 dogs, IsHe and WillHe, who immediately thought a new game was afoot. Simultaneously Sasha, the 2 dogs and I landed on the bed. Bruce moaned and rolled over (sometimes I think I should hate him for his ability to sleep so well.) I grabbed for Sasha but IsHe was faster, before I knew it he engulfed her in his mouth, bounded off the bed and ran into my office which is adjacent to the bedroom.

Somehow Sasha managed to escape IsHe's grip and flew onto my desk sending the stapler, calculator, keyboard, desk lamp, assorted pens and papers cascading to the floor. IsHe tried to jump onto the desk, which sent Sasha flying into the living room. There was a blur of dogs and feathers as I tried to catch hold of any part of the three crazed animals. Meanwhile books and magazines slid off the coffee table, a floor lamp went down, and a cushion from the couch flipped into the air.

I caught the cushion mid-air and flung it back toward the couch but missed and knocked over a vase of flowers sending water and flower petals flooding across the floor.

Finally, I managed to grab hold of the littlest dog, WillHe, and quickly tossed him out the back door. Meanwhile Sasha and IsHe bounded their way into the kitchen. By the time I got the back door shot and managed to stumble and fumble my way into the kitchen Sasha was on the table and IsHe was running wildly in circles under it. I grabbed IsHe and pushed him out the kitchen door and turned back toward the table to capture Sasha. She was gone. I finally located her by following the clatter of dinner dishes breaking in the sink.

When I finally had both hands of my hands firmly on Sasha there was a very brief moment in my sleep dazed, half crazed, mental state where wanted to find a very large stew pot and toss her in it. Instead however, I lifted her so I could look here in the eyes and said "So Sasha, you are obviously quite well and alive eh?"

I tucked her under my arm and walked out to the barn where I sentenced her to spend the night in solitary confinement in a small but secure cage. Walking back to the house , barefoot and coat-less (in the drizzling rain I might add) I tried to remember the perks of living in the country on a ranch. Curiously none came to mind.

Opening the back door I was greeted by a discombobulated Bruce holding a shotgun in one hand and the phone in the other. "OH THANK GOD" he shouted. "I woke up and found the house trashed, and you were gone.. I thought we had been robbed and you were taken hostage."

Sure..... after it's all over he wakes up.