Are you familiar with those people who think they are experts on a wide range of subjects, even though they probably aren’t?
Well, I’m beginning to suspect I might be one of them.
My memory was harkening back to those utterly bizarre COVID lockdown days, when being allowed to visit the supermarket was akin to winning tickets to Taylor Swift and outdoor exercise suddenly became appealing to even the most avid of couch potatoes.
I had a swimming pool and was already following a loose schedule of water aerobics rather than deigning to walk, before real restrictions kicked in. When word went out that pool maintenance companies could no longer do home visits, I made it my mission to stop my blue refuge from turning into a murky green, mosquito-infested lake. Luckily, I had two massive tubfuls of chlorine pucks and a big bag of shock in my arsenal. I stored them in a bathroom at the back of the house which – even with an open window to air it out – smelled like a lab and resembled a scene out of ‘Dexter’.
All that was missing was plastic sheeting around the shower. I basically had to wear a HAZMAT suit to handle those chemicals; forget the dangers of COVID – I was a hair’s breadth from being found slumped over the tubs, unresponsive and stinking of bleach.
Every day I was in the pool with my mask and snorkel on, scrubbing the walls and vacuuming up any residue. I crammed the filter basket full of pucks and if I saw a hint of green in the water, some shock was quickly administered. The high level of chlorine might have flayed the skin off our bones, but that was the chance we had to take. Better that than ending up with a Jurassic pond.
Two weeks into my newfound skills, I was already starting to hand out advice on social media. With all of us physically cut off from each other, Facebook and Instagram were like the wireless of the 21st century. People were posting that they had very few chlorine pucks or were asking how best to maintain elements like their pump in the face of no professional assistance for the forseeable future. Of course, I was just trying to be helpful, but the way I was carrying on, you’d think I was the dean of Pool School. I talked about backwashing, cutting back plant life so it didn’t fall in and then get ‘activated’ by the sun, keeping a beady eye out for any hint of trouble and brushing it away… could a MasterClass be far behind?
When restrictions about visiting others finally eased up, I had a call from friends who were dealing with a pea-green pool and couldn’t get a tech out any time soon due to the huge surge of requests coming in. I actually grabbed a handful of pucks, some shock, my skimmer, vacuum and various other bits and pieces to go round there and see what I could do; all I needed was a van to complete the picture. There was something very Inspector Clouseau about the whole thing.
In the end, it turned out they had a pump leak, which qualified them for an emergency visit – a saving grace, probably, before I could do real damage.
Once the professionals were back in business, I had to turn my head to some other discipline. It took a while, but I finally identified my new calling: Chicken vet.
I can’t remember if I’ve written about this previously, but I discovered that one of our young, wild chickens had small growths around its head. After consulting with my friend Britt, who really does know what she’s talking about, we concluded that the poor thing was suffering from a case of dry fowl pox. The concern was that if the growths got too big, they would cover its eyes and nose holes, so it couldn’t see or smell food. It would then subsequently perish from starvation.
Not on my watch.
I settled it in a spare bedroom, and then spent days force-feeding it soup and syringes of water mixed with apple cider vinegar (apparently the latter works wonders on ailments). At one point, we reached the zenith of the disease, with the teenage rooster’s face and beak almost completely obliterated by hard scabs. I liberally applied Vaseline to those after every feeding time battle. Just when I was about to give up hope, things started clearing. Within a week the growths were nearly completely gone, and I could release him back into the garden. He still waits for me each day by the door, and will flap up onto my arm to get food before the feathery hordes come a-runnin’.
All it took was for me to bring one bird back from the brink, and I reckoned I was the next Dr. Doolittle. I joined a chicken rescue group on Facebook, and started weighing in on maladies. In my defence, I may have retained a shred of useful knowledge.
Two weeks ago, I noticed that a large rooster was not flapping down with the others from a tree to get some bread. When I looked at him closely, he didn’t seem well. He also didn’t resist when I reached in to grab him and carry him into the house.
I pulled out the box of disposable surgical gloves (yes, that’s correct), examined the inside of his mouth, made a phone call or two and determined that he might have wet fowl pox. Out came the syringes and the vinegar, and best friend and housemate Lynne allowed me to open one of her hurricane supply cans of soup.
He spent the next few days living in the shower of the spare room, which didn’t seem to bother him particularly. I had a visitor coming to stay later that week, and I was concerned about handing the rooster his marching papers. I supposed worst-case, I could set him up in my bedroom’s bathtub and hope he didn’t rally enough to escape and wake me in the night with a peck to the face.
Thankfully, the decision didn’t become necessary. On the day my visitor was arriving, my feathered friend seemed remarkably better. It was time to reunite him with his outdoor compadres.
He’s still doing well, and is definitely more bright-eyed than the day I found him all woeful in the tree.
Maybe I really do know how to heal animals and fix pools… or perhaps I just got lucky a couple of times. I guess once my X-ray machine and huge order of water stabiliser kits arrive on the island, we’ll really see if I’m some sort of late-blooming wunderkind or simply a credible danger to man and beast. At least if anything goes wrong, I should be able to represent myself in court by then. I’ve watched a couple of episodes of ‘Law & Order’.
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