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| Lydia and Petunia |
When the grandkids arrived Wednesday afternoon, we planned an expedition for the next day to buy baby chicks (read that phrase in high pitched, squealing, excited voices of three little girls); their parents wouldn’t be able to go with us, as they would be otherwise engaged attending a 3-hour Zoom conference. Thursday after lunch, PopPop, three very excited little girls, and I hopped into the van, and off we went on our adventure, stopping first at Tractor Supply to purchase chick starter and some pine bedding. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the farm, where the owner ushered us into the chicken nursery, a converted garage filled with at least ten large brooders, each one containing 10-25 baby chicks. Anyone who has ever been thrilled and mesmerized by a tub full of fluffy, peeping, adorable baby chicks knows how we felt; the kids (and I) were in baby chick heaven. We opened tub after tub after tub, each of us selecting precious little fluff balls and naming them on the spot. Aside from Molly getting scratched by a farm kitten who just wouldn’t let go of her neck, nothing marred the experience, and we left with a box of seven baby chicks. The cherry on top was a pitstop at Pelican’s Snowballs for a delightful afternoon treat.
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Isabella and Pearl
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The drive home was peppered with constant questions as to the health of the chicks, with the girls begging to take out the chicks and hold them “because they are lonely.” Once we arrived back home, the chicks were introduced into their new home, each one having its little beak dipped in the water bowl to encourage it to rehydrate. The rest of the day was filled with all of us (adults included) making frequent trips to stand over the brooder and watch the chicks eat, play, and run around, and of course the inevitable pleas from their human mamas to “please can we hold them, please please please?” We all laughed at the antics; a couple of them like to sleep in the food dish as if they are worried about losing their place in line at the food buffet, some unceremoniously walking over sleeping brood-mates, and all of them producing a prodigious amount of poop. Five of the chicks received names: Petunia (Lydia), Clutch (Molly), Pearl (Isabella), Buttercup (Sophie), and Creamsicle (Pop Pop). Chicken lovers know they are quite addictive to watch; the chicks monopolized a lot of our attention, but we eventually all went to sleep that first night praying for a good, safe night for our new little flock.
The next morning, it was obvious Pearl was not faring well—she was listless and not eating or drinking, and despite our efforts, she was our first casualty. Isabella held little Pearl, and nonplussed by her chick’s pending demise, asked if she could just adopt Creamsicle instead in typical Isa fashion. They held a little funeral, singing hymns, and we buried her right next to the resting place of our family dogs. I think I felt worse than the kids did, so I drove back to the farm and got her a replacement Pearl. All was well, we were back to seven fluff balls, and the grandkids left for a two day visit with some nearby friends, admonishing me as they left to take good care of the chicks while they were gone (they were coming back Sunday for a two day stopover on their way back to Atlanta). So, Friday evening found me checking each one for pasty butt, cleaning the ones afflicted, and fussing over one of them in particular: little Petunia was looking very lethargic and listless, so I hand fed her some electrolytes and hovered over the brooder until I was too tired to stay up any longer. All to no avail, because the next morning, she was gone. I was heartbroken, even more so because I’d have to break the news to Lydia.
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| Molly and Clutch |
So, I bought 7 chicks on Thursday. I’ve replaced one, and am seriously contemplating a trip to replace Petunia. I’m doing everything I can—electrolytes, food, heat, checking their butts, etc, and I’m at a loss as to what to do next. I’ve never raised baby chicks before and I feel silly for sitting here crying over dead baby chicks. Sure I know loss is to be expected with little fluffy babies less than 2 weeks old but to lose two of seven is heartbreaking, especially because those two were handpicked and named by two of the granddaughters. So I’m worrying over them like a mother hen (now I know where that phrase comes from) and feeling helpless. I have to fight the urge to constantly stand over the brooder, and trust that I am doing everything I can to keep them warm, fed, watered and safe. When one of them looks weak, or isn’t at the feeding bowl with the rest of them, my first desire is to pick it up and hold it and nurse it with a medicine dropper. I fret that it may be too warm or too cold or the food is too hard or the chicks are too little. I keep going to backyard chicken blogs and YouTube to glean more advice, hoping to find the magic bullet. I wonder if the coop I have ready for them outside will be safe enough or big enough. What about raccoons and foxes and possums? How do I ensure these little ones will survive in here, let alone outside? Should I get a guinea hen or a rooster to keep them safe and warn them about predators? So many questions, so many factors over which I have little to no control. Like life.
How easily I slip back into old habits, the illusion that I am in control, that I can know all and fix all. And how quickly I forget who truly holds the reins, and who is the creator and who is the created.
Raising baby chicks will humble you in a heartbeat, and remind you very quickly how fragile and fleeting and precious and exhilarating life truly is.
"How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number – living things both large and small." (Psalm 104:24-25)
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