Here is a message that I sent to friends the past Tuesday, Valentine’s Day:
Well. I read some happy Valentine’s day sharing and thought: blah! I’m in a bad mood. It is over these *$#! chicks. I had no idea of all that would be involved! I had no idea of how complicated I make everything, and how much I had to learn– and all Again! How many times have I done this in my life? I want to back up and have a do-over about these chickens. This morning I noticed a couple of runny poos. Yikes! Of course there is no telling from which one. Maybe they have the dread disease that I cannot pronounce and all because I did not use the medicated feed, that a number of people told me I did not need. People have told me all sorts of conflicting advice. And I’ve discovered that keeping the flock in a wire cat carrier similar to the ones as the feed store that looked so ideal has a large drawback. One can only get in it through a side door. Getting harder and hard to clean the dang cage with the chicks in there. They scramble around in a hazardous manner, and are very hard to catch from the side angle. They fly and flap all over, likely to get injured. One chick, who I’ve been concerned about for days as she is not growing and thriving like the others, got a hurt leg. Or had a stroke, I don’t know. All I can tell is that her right leg and foot is not working, and let me say that a chick cannot hop around on only one leg. I had to separate her out, expected her to die, but she did not. So now I have a stupid one-legged chick, still peeping, in a little box, with my desk lamp for heat, eating and drinking out of my grandmother’s cut crystal ice tea coasters.
My friends flocked, to use an apt expression, to bolster me, reminding me in so many words that I was indulging in listening to doubts, and that there are trials in any learning experience, and laughing with me, too. One friend also pointed out: “How many people do you know who have a one-legged, midget chicken?”
Friends are invaluable. They help pick you up when you have a leg that has collapsed.
Handy husbands are equally invaluable. DH, probably in self-defense, fearing I was teetering on the edge, went to work designing and building a wonderfully larger brooder cage that is accessed through the top. And equally important, it would be placed in the garden room at the end of the garage. He even made a divider to give our little one-legged midget chick– we’ve named her Princess Puny– her own safe space.
I just came in from the garden room, where DH was dropping dug worms to the chicks, and they were all, even Puny racing around chasing the lucky sister who caught the worm, while DH laughed with delight. Maybe the chicks were not only for me.
I’ve learned in these past two weeks that I embarked on keeping chickens with far less knowledge than I had believed and many more misconceptions. All perfectly normal, and due to the fact that experience is the surest and most truthful of teachers. No matter what the books have said, not just any old thing will do for a chick brooder; get something accessed from the top. The chicks don’t see you coming and you can grab them easily. Also, chicks, like fish and visiting relatives, stink in the house after a week.
I’ve relearned that when anything dire seems to happen, wait three days before one panics, and by then most things are resolved, one way or another.
I’ve learned it’s awfully nice to sit in the garden room with DH, both of us on up-ended buckets, and watch the chicks just poking around. That really sounds odd, but the critters are mesmerizing, so besides the hope of eggs, they provide some relaxation away from the real world.
When I learn something new – and it happens every day – I feel a little more at home in this universe, a little more comfortable in the nest.–Bill Moyers