Meditation With Chicken

For the first time since we opened up our chicken coop in the summer of 2008, we have an infestation. I noticed a chicken had thickened, lumpy toes and legs sometime in the summer and I remembered reading something somewhere about "scaly leg mites" but after Dwayne's stroke on August 5, I lost track of the chickens - and several other things, to be honest.
But that's what happens, right? A health crisis drops you into an ocean of uncertainty and uni-focus and everything else drops away, and you have to just hope you don't end up with a mess on your hands when you resurface for a breath.
In this case, I've ended up with a mess on my lap.

It's not easy taking a photo of a chicken sitting in knee-deep soapy water in a plastic bowl wedged between your legs. Dwayne is not particularly interested in this treatment for scaly leg mites (not that he enjoys shooting chickens but if the infection is bad enough, as it was for another hen, he's of the do-away-with-the-problem kind of guy) so he's not coming out to the coop to help, or even take some photos for me.
This is part two of the treatment; Dwayne did part one - cleaning out the coop and the nest boxes. Then I covered the bare floors and bare boxes and the pedway outside and even their dirt baths in the pen with diatomaceous earth, which is supposed to kill the mites.
But scaly leg mites are contagious so they need to be eradicated from the actual birds.

Every other evening after supper, I put on my coveralls and my gloves, pack my bucket with coconut oil, a water-vinegar solution, a toothbrush, a couple of old towels, and the bowl of soapy water. It's lavender-scented dish soap, the mildest in the house (although I suppose I could use my custom-made Field Notes soap - it's all-natural with chamomile).
The feet are soaked first, dried, then I use the toothbrush to gently rub the vinegar solution over her legs. After that, I wipe coconut oil all over her feet; that's not easy, let me tell you, because the warmth of my fingers melts it but I try to get everything covered.
Tonight, she was restless at that point and we both ended up with coconut oil in our tail feathers!
Because of the smell of the coconut oil, I've named her "Pina Colada".

The first time I did this, she squawked and fluttered and resisted the whole time; I ended up soaking wet. But after that evening, she let me pick her up and hold her and put her in the water without any resistance at all. Perhaps she finds the lavender smell and the warm water soothing; she knows I'm not going to hurt her. Maybe it's making her feet feel better.

This is what I want you to know about this whole endeavour: For twenty minutes every other night, I get this meditation out in the chicken coop.
For ten minutes, we just sit, Pina and I, with her feet soaking in the water and my hands under her wings, loose, just barely holding her. I can feel her heart beat, I can feel her breathing. Her head constantly moves, as she listens to the hens on the other side of the wall settle onto the roosts, as she looks around at me.
We look each other in the eyes for the longest time.
I run my hands over her soft feathers, marvelling at how tightly layered they are - for warmth and protection.
Even though this treatment may not be sustainable -- it could be months of this, and it looks like there are a couple of other hens with scaly leg mites -- I'm enjoying this unexpected and not altogether unpleasant act of animal husbandry. Heart to heart, eyeball to eyeball, her toes, my fingers.
For a few moments at the end of a day, I get some peace, some quiet, and some one-on-one time with a gentle chicken.

*** Update: I'm doing this for two chickens now, every evening -- so it's Pina AND Colada! Colada isn't as bad as Pina, but already I'm seeing a difference. Colada is molting now, however, so I end up covered in feathers by the end of the spa session. Let me tell you, those feathers sure do stick to fingers covered in coconut oil!