Yesterday, I once again sacrificed my breasts to the good of one of God’s creatures. How many is that now? Three children nursed for a cumulative total of 3 ½ years (rocks in socks if you were wondering, thank goodness for bras), and two chicks, one who died there and one who is about to leave this Earth but, alas, not while singing its swan (chick) song in my cleavage.
If you remember, it was just over three weeks ago that we experienced the Great Coyote Chicken Massacre of 2007. Those of you who have incubated eggs before know that the chicken gestation period is 21 days. Hence, we now have 7 new adorable fluffy chicks with which to replenish the flock. Add them to the four we bought Pint for his birthday and that means we have (for now) 11 chicks to replace the 22 we lost. We had a few too many before; we have too few now (not enough farm fresh eggs make the Dillons a grumpy family; thank goodness for the ducks’ hard work).
Speaking of, I don’t think I told you that Melanie’s chickens sent us eggs to pacify and console us after the GCCM. Farmers (and chickens) are awesome beings. Interestingly, their yolks are deeper orange than ours; I think they have (I know it exists but I haven’t seen it for some time) grass there. Because of this, our chickens are now getting a small handful of alfalfa each day to compensate. There’s nothing like adding a little anticipation to cracking open an egg. Yes, I lead an insular life here; it’s the little things that keep me going (sort of).
Back to poor dying Tigger (yes, he is the only one we have named and yes, this was before we knew he was probably not going to make it). Unlike the others, he wasn’t (isn’t) active; he doesn’t eat or drink on his own; he seems to have no pecking or scratching instinct at all. This is bad, very, very bad.
Bleeding heart that I am, and trying to focus on something other than my own ills, I pulled him from his now garage-dwelling cage mates and brought him inside. He felt cold and listless so into my cleavage he went. I one-handedly mixed a warm solution of sugar water and chick starter into a liquidy mash and began slowly dipping his tiny beak into it. He rallied, peeping his gratitude more and more strongly to me and I began to have hope. As the next step in Operation Enliven Chick, I got a small dish of mash on its own. Alas, he did not, would not, and could not eat it. I held his little head and simulated pecking into the dish, but it did not take. We napped together and I told him I was glad he had spent a little bit of his short life cuddled up with me and then, resignedly, I put him back into the cage with the others, unable to weather the experience of yet another animal dying on me (literally).
This morning, he is still barely hanging in there. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the day. I do know, however, that miracles happen, and although I don’t expect one, I would welcome it nonetheless.
Life is so fleeting and unexplainable. Why do some live and others die? Why do some suffer and others skate? I have no answers. I know we’re supposed to make the most of the time we have but I’m afraid lately I haven’t been doing so well at that. It’s time to pull up my invisible bootstraps and try harder.
Love, love, love reading your everyday adventures! We too, are just beginning our lives in the "pretending to farm" category! We have 19 chickens and are anxiously awaiting the girls to lay their first egg(s).
Please keep writing. You made me giggle out loud!
Playtime Pastures!
Posted by: Jamie Condon | July 30, 2011 at 06:39 PM