You Can’t Take the Things

A few months ago, Chicken, one of our chickens, died. You’re thinking she suffered a stuffing-and-fruit-relish-related fate, but no. Our big hen went limp and, a day later, joined The Choir Invisible. I hope she can sing. Other Chicken, with the coop and the run to herself, became depressed. She also became Chicken by default, so we’ve taken to calling her Cat. She stayed inside the coop and barely ate. Andie and I hatched a plan.

Peep! Peep!

This is our baby. You can’t tell here because she’s the only visible chicken, but she is tiny and makes baby chick peep-peep sounds. She’s totally cute!

Joining us two weeks ago were two juveniles and a young mature hen. Pete asked me, “What are their names?” I said, “Patty, Maxene and LaVerne.” The woman who gave them to us advised us to introduce the new chickens to Cat the Chicken by letting them all wake up in the same coop together. I let everyone fall asleep, then put three squawking new chickens into a dark coop in which Cat the Chicken bock-bock-bocked menacingly, like it was a fowl horror film, and I may still have some guilt. Within days, the little chickens adapted and Cat the Chicken rebounded. She’s demanding treats, chasing the other chickens and spending all her time supervising the run. Yesterday, Andie opened the run door and Cat the Chicken jumped out, which was her way of declaring she was ready to scratch in the tiny yard again. We were overjoyed.

Things are looking up, by which I mean: don’t look up. We have tiny chickens in high places.

 

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