If you ever have a chance to take Avian Surgery, make sure to take it in the a Poultry Science department with a competent teacher. My professor was a godsend. He is an absolutely amazing man, who devotes much of his time to apoptosis research in his chronically over-heated laboratory, riding his motorcycle and running a three-and-a-half hour marathon. If you are wondering what that something about him is, I will save you the effort of contemplating it yourself, as I have been wont to do. It is hyperactivity. It is difficult to register this in the neutral mind; when is the last time you have met someone above the age of 15 who truly possessed boundless untameable energy? He is over 50 and will not slow for anything. This is part of the charm.
Avian Surgery will prepare you for the Real World in ways that most other classes cannot. It allows for a real understanding of antibiotics, antibiotic resistance, anesthesia, suturing techniques, precise incising, and wound care. This series of practical experiences is beneficial to pre-vet as well as pre-med students. These are hands-on procedures that most other courses of study simply do not offer, and thus, it is to the advantage of the well-prepared student to take the class when it is offered Spring semester of every year.
The lab portion of this class involves two each of 4 different surgeries. The first is an introduction to surgical techniques; the group learns to entubate, anesthetize, and incise a bird. Then, using suture techniques practiced earlier, they simply close the bird up and allow her to recuperate. All surgeries are performed on laying hens. The next surgery is a follicle removal, followed by a removal of an egg from the egg shell gland, and finally a cecectomy. The final tests students on general techniques learned throughout the lab period, including gross anatomy of the GI tract and oviduct, as well as suturing techniques, blood collection and euthanasia.
All of this is well and good. The things learned in this class are truly fascinating and extraordinarily helpful to the students involved. What you must keep in mind, however, is that every single lab period, you are preparing birds for death. During our second surgery, our chicken's heart stopped beating. We had to perform CPR and nurse her under a heating pad to help her regain consciousness. The following Tuesday, we euthanized her for necropsy to check our suturing. The bird we operated on prior to Spring Break had some dehiscence issues-- by the time I checked on her on Monday the following week, her incision site had become necrotic and had split open. Her oviduct was exposed to her filthy feathers. We had to euthanize her a day early. She spent a week like this, but was still the most productive layer in the recovery room. One group had a bird die every single surgery. Birds are much more amenable to cuddling when they are recovering from anesthesia. You name them. You hold them. When it is time for the final injection, they will avoid you with as much energy as they can muster. You will feel accomplished if you can kill a bird with only one needle stick. Blowing a vein, fragile as they are, is the worst.
But all of that is okay. All of those things are understandable and acceptable. What is not acceptable is the practical we had today. We were tested on our ability to collect a blood sample and euthanize a bird. No problem. Each person in the group had their own bird to work on. Adam bled and killed his broiler without incidence. I followed suit. Jessica... hesitated. Adam held the bird's head and chest, I held the feet and abdomen. She... hesitated. And the bird fought, panicked. Spasmed. Once. Twice. Three four five hard jerks of the wings and legs. Wings thrashing, Jess paled and said she thought she heard the bone snap. Adam assured her it hadn't and we urged her to hurry, before the bird became more active. I did not mention that below my hand, I could feel the heart racing. Beats per minute sky rocketed to several a second and as she finally finagled the needle into that rolling brachial vein everything went calm. Small, slow movements below my fingers, not fast hard contractions. Could they really not see that the bird had stopped breathing? When she went to adjust the needle, I gently suggested Adam remove his hand from the bird's face. Eyes shut. Myocardial infarction. She hadn't even drawn blood.
We got her another bird. She got the blood this time. It flowed like water right in to the syringe. Euthasol at the ready. Cue thrashing. One. Two. Three four-- needle goes in and she pumps pink fluid into the circulation of a once living broiler. Adam and I made eye contact over the racing heartbeat. I lied and told her the bird was alive and the solution had killed it. Adam had no qualms with the truth. She looked devastated. Compton told her these broilers are fragile that way. Extraordinarily rapid growth does not lend itself well to robust organ development. Panic means death. And I know this, now. It was my hands that traced the terror and vibrated with the vicious despair that faded, defeated, in to oblivion. I have felt it all day. I have the smell of it in my nose and the feel of it on my fingertips.
The Poultry Science department, featuring this Avian Surgery course among many others is more than worth your time. It is an experience that will leave you with more knowledge than you imagine possible.
You cannot possibly imagine.