I’m not a farmer. Never claimed to be a farmer. Yes, I’ve done some farm work. Back in my youth (50-60 years ago) I worked every hay season for a neighbor farmer in exchange for free hay for my horses and goats. This was back when you picked up the bales from the field and tossed them up into the hay truck. Then later picked them up from the truck and tossed them up to the hay loft. I did have a one-acre organic garden for many years, trading my produce for things I did not grow. Eventually, though, I grew tired of starting each day by picking bugs off plants.

I’ve worked a couple of different horse ranches taking tourists out riding in the woods, cleaning stalls, grooming horses, cleaning stalls and feeding the horses. Did I mention cleaning stalls? One year, I worked on a cattle farm in Kodak in exchange for a rent-free house while working full-time at Fort Sanders Regional Medical Center (at that time called Fort Sanders Presbyterian Hospital) and raising a child. But I’m not a farmer. It’s simple. I seriously do not want to work that hard.

So when I tell you that we have chickens, goats, dogs and cats, know that it is because I really like being around animals and we do the best that we can to keep them happy and healthy. Which is what I need you to understand before I tell you about Randy.

Last year, we got a dozen baby chicks—some from Tractor Supply and some from Rural King. All were sexed to be hens. Until one grew up and started to crow. That was our first hint. He grew into a beautiful bird and did a fine job of protecting and servicing his hens. Except, of course, for the fact that we no longer hatch out chicks, so his “services” were not needed. I noticed one day that he was in the chicken coop and not with his hens in the chicken yard as usual. Odd. The next morning there was a hen in an egg box, but her head was down with eyes closed. This is not a typical egg-laying position. And Randy was back in the coop. Two strange occurrences. Looking both over carefully, I could find nothing else odd. All the other chickens seemed fine, but I had to wonder if there was something contagious going on. I made an appointment (please do not laugh) to take them both to the vet that day.

When I returned to the barn to pick up the two birds, the hen was now quite dead. The vet said that Randy was dehydrated and she started a saline drip by hanging a bag of saline over his head with a tube running down to a small needle and inserting that needle under his skin. She also gave him oral antibiotics. I was to continue the drip and the antibiotics three times a day. When I got back home, I put Randy into our ICU (the guest bathroom bathtub) where he stayed listless for a couple of days. I kept checking on him, rehydrating him, giving him his antibiotics, and encouraging him to eat and drink. When he perked up after a couple of days, we returned him to his flock. This had an immediate effect on his attitude. Randy was home. And healthy.

But lately, the dear old soul has been getting increasingly aggressive—even to the point of attacking those who feed and water him and clean his home. He draws blood and causes bruises. The hens are losing their feathers more from his constant attention. And after all that effort, all of that time, and paying a vet for a bird we never really wanted in the first place, Randy’s days here may well be numbered.

Did I mention—with the enormous respect I have for farmers—that I’m not a farmer?