Friday, 1 February 2013

Spike

So. Yesterday got the fire going in the stove, and moved Spike (in Tilda's pen, a metal dog crate) in front of it.  Eventually he perked up a bit. Not a lot, but a bit.   He started to drink from the syringe, and eventually he even drank from the water pot.   he wasn't interested in food, but I did manage to get a bit of yoghurt into him.   

Isobel, cat, was most upset that one of those things had now encroached on her living room territory.

At 4pm it was time to put the Girls away and bring Tilda in.  I transferred Spike into a cardboard box, into which I'd cut air holes and slits to hold plastic coop cups.  It was a fairly tall box, one in which he could stand up completely even if i shut the lid.   I decided a cardboard box in front of the woodburning stove was possibly a recipe for disaster, so I put it in the kitchen,

Wash, our nosey ginger cat who loves boxes, got a bit of a shock when he put his paws on to the edge of the new box in the kitchen.   Fortunately for everyone, he hadn't just jumped straight in.     An oven shelf over the top of Spike's box prevented any further problems on that front.

We borrowed the bedside reading light and shone it into Spike's box so he could see the food and water. I put some grapes and mealworms into the food container, and eventually we heard him pecking at it.

By the time we went to bed, Spike no longer looked like he was in shock.

....

This morning, I heard a cracked cockadoodle doo.  Followed by several more.  It was about 7am, and I had a headache and couldn't face getting up.  DH was fast asleep.  After about half a dozen attempts, he stopped (Spike, crowing, that is).

A little while later, a stronger series of cockadoodle doo.

And then some more. Eventually, DH woke up.    Neither of us had work this morning, so we were trying to doze.   Both cats were on the bed, and had started to stomp around, presumably wondering where in the hell breakfast had got to.

DH got up, fed cats, and took the oven rack off Spike's box.  This meant that not only could Spike stand up, but he could stretch his head and neck right out of the box.... and that meant he could really COCK A DOODLE DOOOOOOOOO.   He was so pleased that he could do it properly that he made up for the weaker earlier attempts.

By the time I got downstairs, he had climbed out of the box and was perching on the side, crowing happily.    Tilda had come out of her pen, was standing by his box with her wings over her ears, telling him to shut the heck up.  

Apart from the bloody blobs on his comb and wattles, and the crispy bits of feather where the blood had splattered yesterday and I hadn't been able to get it off,  he looks like his normal self.   We briefly discussed whether I should bath him but, as this would have meant he would have to stay here today to dry off, we decided not to.

I sent a text to my lovely next door  neighbour to apologise, and to reassure her that he was going back home shortly.

 DH got the purple spray, and sprayed his comb and wattles (and the bench outside, and anything nearby).  We then popped him into Tilda's pen, and had something to eat while we waited for it to dry. I wondered whether he would be any more kindly disposed towards me, after I had taken such care of him.  I suspect not.

DH is taking him back to the allotment as I type. Fingers crossed it's all OK.




 



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