Chickens, Redux

After our first experiment with chickens (the trauma of the raccoon massacre, and then Romeo Rooster from next door who wooed the few remaining lovely - yet decidedly PTSD affected - girls away), we took a couple of years to regroup, learn more, prep better, and see if we can make a go of it this time around. We ordered 26 chickens from the hatchery, waited anxiously for the shipping notification, then stalked the post office regularly enough to make local law enforcement a titch nervous.

It took too long. And it's not just that it *felt* like it took too long - it really did. They should have arrived Sunday or Monday. Tuesday was the "at the very latest" date. Come late delivery on Tuesday, there were still no chicks. The hatchery had been wonderful, but what could they do? The chicks left the hatchery on Sunday morning, early. The USPS doesn't always know what's going on within its own system, so there wasn't anything they could do, either. So we waited. And fretted. And called. And waited some more.

This morning, they arrived. The lady who works the lobby at our branch is a dear. The Post Mistress at our branch is also great. They met us at the door, asked the children to wait just inside, and ushered me off to "have a word". (Remember the stalking bit? Yeah, I contemplated running for a split second, there. Kind of tense. And awkward.)

But it wasn't us. It was our poor chicks. They hadn't fared well in transit. At all. The ladies wanted to warn me so I didn't toss the box to the boys and let them open it up like an Easter box from Tim Burton.

We've spent the day nursing traumatized chicks. I was going to say "back to health", but I don't think we've been wildly successful. Four days without food or water is hard on anyone - on a newborn? *pfft* It's amazing that any of them have survived, at all. At the most optimistic point today, I thought we would have eleven left. Tonight, I think we'll be lucky to have saved four, come morning.

It's been a long, hard, draining day. The kids are amazing. James is like having James Herriot in the house. John's a wee Dr. Dolittle. All day long, stopping only for meals, they've been at it. I'm proud of them. I'm sad for them. Sad for the chicks, too. (And yes, the hatchery will square everything on their end. But it's not about renumeration. It's about how darn hard it is to explain to your 8yo that while his songs and gentle caresses won't make it all go away, they are Good, and they are Worth Doing. Because comfort and compassion are arrows that never miss their marks. Keep them in your quiver. Use them generously and well. You'll never regret it, even when it's hard.)

And now, I do believe it's time to slip a little Irish Cream into my coffee.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy