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Life as a Vet Student:

Chicken Little

Trisha J Oura - Tufts University - Class of 2008

Adopt-a-farm, Adopt-a-vet--I’m not really sure who is adopting whom, but Tufts has a program that requires every first year veterinary student to spend two full days at a farm. The idea is to introduce all of us to what a working farm is like since hardly anyone grows up in the rolling hills of Yorkshire anymore. The farms can vary dramatically, from the dairy operation that requires students to be present and perky for the 3am milking or the alpaca farm that serves up a feast for lunch (following mid-morning tea, of course) and then spends a few hours chatting about the weather and the price of wool. Oddly enough, most students cross their fingers and hope for the camelid experience.

I didn’t know what to expect at mine. What’s not to like about 50 chickens, a few mules, some donkeys, and the pot-bellied pig that every animal sanctuary is required to have? I didn’t know that the trip would become one of the defining moments of my veterinary career. There is something life-altering about the moment that you realize you’re having a really good time, and you can’t wait to tell everyone about the cool stuff you’ve done…despite the fact that you’re covered in cooking oil and bleeding from wounds inflicted by a chicken.

Yes, it was hard for me to admit at first, but I have come to terms with the fact that I got my butt kicked by a chicken. Well, multiple chickens to be exact. And anyone out there laughing clearly has never wrestled chickens in oil. Every time I tell someone this story, they give me a really weird look, and I wonder if there might be something wrong with me. I mean, my social life has already been forever altered by sushi-style cuts of various animal penises with toothpicks in them asking “what is this structure?” and by the simple knowledge that male pigs can “entertain” themselves with certain anatomical anomalies which are supposedly for pheromones (but the boars know better, I guess), but I seemed to really lose some respect when I talk about getting beaten up by chickens.

But then I realize that I’m just your average veterinary student, and I can’t expect everyone to understand how evil the wretched little creatures can be. When they’re flapping around in a panic, you’re just sure you’re going to lose an eye to a rooster spur. And just because they weigh slightly less than I do, it really is quite difficult to catch one of them if they’re simply determined not to relinquish their mites. I still shake my fist at that one guinea fowl that escaped my clutches and is walking around today un-oiled—I hope he’s enjoying his mites!

For those of you thoroughly confused, chickens and other birds get mites on their feet, and apparently you can treat them by smothering them in oil. That’s actually the mites, not the chickens, but it never really ends up that way. The chickens just don’t seem to understand that the oil really only needs to stay on their feet and not on your shirt, in your hair, in your mouth. I swear I still taste oil and chicken feathers. I know that my clothes still reek of Crisco vegetable oil, and I may never cook with it again. The chickens that are particularly fun are the Bantams. Silky and black, they look like a Newfoundland puppy when viewed from behind, and because their feathers extend all the way between their freakish extra toes, they really soak up that oil well and then splatter it all over you like a two year-old unleashed with finger paints.

And even though I walked away from that farm smothered in oil, caked in chicken poop, and absolutely certain that the mites had fled the chicken feet and were now crawling up MY toes, I felt as though I had learned some really valuable lessons. I learned to appreciate those who run such sanctuaries, I managed to enjoy hanging out with equines (let’s face it, large horse-like animals are still a little intimidating when you’ve grown up around hamsters, guinea pigs, and golden retrievers...none of which can really kick you and break important anatomical structures) , and I learned some really marketable skills. I mucked stalls and divided up rations for all the animals. Now, if only I could figure out how to properly list ‘chicken wrestling’ on my CV….

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