Wendyl Nissen: Rest in pieces

"She died in her sleep," my brother assured me over the phone.

"I knew she wasn't going to last," I said sadly.

"She had a lovely smile on her face when I found her this morning," he continued.

Which is when I knew he was lying. Hens don't smile. Especially not Hillary.

Readers may remember Hillary was centre stage recently when we expertly assisted her through a harrowing egg-bound episode.

She was fine; we were the ones who suffered recurrent nightmares and nauseating flashbacks.

It had involved rubber gloves, several applications of K-Y Jelly, salt water and the jet propulsion of not one but two eggs from Hillary's rear one Saturday afternoon.

For two city dwellers new to urban poultry-keeping, it was our first taste of animal husbandry or, should I say, midwifery.

We have just had our second.

All three hens have stopped laying due to a combination of fewer daylight hours, a moult which means every inch of our property is the proud owner of at least one ginger hen feather, and a generally contrary and not very endearing attitude which has taken over the hen house.

Hillary, however, had not been laying because she couldn't. Every few days her eyes clouded over, her tail pointed skyward and she went into labour, attempting to squeeze out an egg the size of a teacup.

More rubber gloves, K-Y, gentle hugs and warm baths were having no effect whatsoever.

"Give her that special squeeze you do which helps it out," I commanded my husband as he held her for the 34th time, attempting to relieve her distress.

He tucked her under his arm and did a gentle version of a one-armed chicken dance. This, while he gazed out the window, his face strained in sympathy with Hillary.

It wouldn't budge. Or they wouldn't budge, because knowing Hilary there were at least two backed up in there.

"I think we might have to face the fact that there's something wrong with her pipes," I commented, expecting my soft-hearted husband to disagree. Hillary was, after all, his hen.

"Yes, you're right, let's put her down."

"I guess that's what we have to do," I agreed reluctantly. "Put her out of her misery."

"Off you go then, I'll dig the hole."

I had heard you could take chooks to the vet, who would put a teeny weeny bit of gas over their beaks, but I was sure the bill would be ridiculous.

"The car," I said to my husband.

"You're going to run her over?" he gasped.

"No, you put them in a box, seal it up and run a pipe from the exhaust into the box and they go to sleep, then die."

"You drive a hybrid which has low CO2 emissions and when it's idling runs on an electric battery - it will take a week to kill her," he concluded.

"I thought it was the carbon monoxide, not dioxide, which kills them - maybe there's enough in the hybrid exhaust to do the job," I said, wondering just for a moment if Toyota really intended their hi-tech Prius to be used as a hen killer.

"Ring your brother," said my husband, before plonking Hillary under a bush where she did a very good impression of a dying swan.

"Do you want her body back or can I eat her?" my brother said enthusiastically. He is a budgie breeder who knows a lot about how to kill birds and likes to eat them. A lot.

Not budgies, obviously, but anything else which happens across his path. Pukeko, swans, geese.

"If you eat her then it makes her life worthwhile, I guess," I said, coming over all Zen.

I put her in a box in my brother's car.

I rang him the next day hoping that overnight he had used his bird knowledge to save my hen, perhaps performing a pain-free episiotomy.

"How did you really do it?" I demanded.

"I held her upside down by her feet and then pulled her neck down really quickly."

"Oh," was all I could think to say.

"Over in a second," he said, sensing jokes were not appropriate.

I'm taking a very large salad to my brother's place for my mother's birthday dinner - I have a feeling chicken curry will be on the menu.