Chapter 3: Chickenstein (also known as The Post-Modern Prometheus)

It is day 20 here on the farm (also known as my bathroom where the brooder holding the ten chicks is located). The chicks' food intake has more than tripled in the last two days. I have certainly noticed their steady growth over these past couple of weeks; however, this increased consumption has put me back into "Got to keep the sky propped up somehow" mode.


You see, my supply of starter feed is precariously low at this point and, though more is being delivered tomorrow, I fear that by the time it arrives I will have run plumb out and the chicks, like the eagle that made a continual meal of Prometheus's liver, will have turned on me. Plus, there is that over-active imagination of mine, which is charged with thoughts of opening the bathroom door tomorrow morning to be greeted by ten chicks that have surpassed me in height and are cheeping death threats at me in three human languages, as well as their own poultry patois.


I suppose it was all "I'm going to get me some of that Zeus-fire" of me (also known as "cocky" in chicken-inspired speak) to think that I could raise eight more chickens than originally planned without incident. All that cuteness had to come at some cost.


And so, it is a tense night here on the farm. (Insert sound of thunder here.) What will tomorrow morning bring? A pummeling by hungry pullets that have tripled in size overnight? A frantic run to Belmont Feed & Seed? Or some new way to enjoy this adventure, despite my missteps along the way?


Moral of the Story: Don't just count your chickens after they hatch. Multiply that number by the number of pounds on the bag of feed you're using for the appropriate timeframe—then double!

Chapter 2: Growing Pains Me

The chicks turned 2 weeks old yesterday. Save for one of the Buff Orpington's two-hour recovery from the chicks' travels via U.S. Postal Service to my house, they have all been healthy, hearty and growing robustly.

However, this morning one of the Buff Orpingtons (possibly the star of Interlude No. 1—there are two of them that I cannot tell apart) began to act as though ill. She would not stop pecking at the feathers underneath her wings, which seemed quite sparse by the time I took notice of her behavior. She would occasionally stop to burrow into the bedding (which is why I think it may have been the star of Interlude No. 1).

Soon the other chicks were pecking at her feathers, as well. The sky was falling fast. And my heart was sinking right along with it. I thought about going to work and hoping for the best. I was late due to a migraine I had earlier in the morning. Then I thought about coming home to a dead chick in the brooder. That was like a lead acorn against my already-aching head.

I set up a separate box in which to isolate the sick chick, checking on her periodically as I ran around wondering how much time until the sky had completely crashed down around me. Things seemed to be getting worse. She burrowed into the bedding behind the water dish, which is a very tight space. Was she going there to die? Did chickens do that? Or was she trying to hide from the onslaught of the other chicks? And why is all of her feathering looking so sparse? Could the other chicks have pecked her that much in the few minutes I'd been gone?

Off I went to finish setting up a separate place for her. Once done, I went in to get her—only to find that all of the chicks were now doing what the "sick chick" had been doing. What was going on? Lemonhead seemed to be the worst off. She seemed to have difficulty walking, and looked like she was wet.

It was time to "talk to the king", meaning search the internet, of course. I searched "feather pecking chicks", "chick obsessively preening" "chickens sick chick" "chickens chick illnesses", "chicken burrowing in bedding" and a few other odd combinations of words that brought up various chicken, porn and "girly" websites. None of the chicken websites offered information on what I was witnessing. Neither did any of the porn websites.

Back to the brooder I went, bracing myself for the worst. And found that the sky, as well as the chicks, had been restored to their former selves. The sun, singing "What a Wonderful World" and backed by an orchestra of fair weather cumulus clouds, hung solidly in a firmly blue sky. And the chicks were all fluffy again and back to playing the game they came up with a couple of days ago (inelegantly named "Snatch-the-Random-Pine-Shaving-From-the-Beak-of-the-Chick-Running-Around-With-A-Random-Pine-Shaving-In-Her-Beak").

I have been noticing the lessening of fluff in many of them over the last several days, and new, harder feathers have been coming in but those few moments of strife this morning seemed to signal a more profound growth spurt. This evening they all look bigger, shaggier, ganglier—not as cute as they were, but certainly more beautiful in their way.

Moral of the Story:  Chicks growing bigger (hence closer to the sky) does not equal the falling of the sky.

Interlude No. 1: Cleaning or Dreaming?

This is the first indication I have seen of any of the chicks practicing taking a dust bath, though this Buff Orpington chick seemed more intent on making a nest to sleep in, as she slept in the "hole" she dug for herself for a while after I stopped recording this video, despite all the traffic around her.

Chapter 1: Of Pullets and Parables

Our tale begins one recent summer day on the northwest side of Chicago. An industrious woman, one Chick Little, sits on the stoop of her building. Having spent the last two months caring for Tammy (a bantam rescue hen of unknown lineage), and researching breeds that might be suitable companions for Tammy, our heroine not-so-patiently awaits the postal worker who will bring her choices—one Buff Orpington and one Silver-Laced Wyandotte. Each of these breeds is known for its docility, sociable nature and tolerance of confinement (especially important when living on the roof of a garage in the middle of a city with a couple of million other inhabitants).

The sun is shining. Birds are singing. Children skip merrily down the street. Squirrels are washing Ms. Little's car. Finally, the mailman arrives and hands Chick the cardboard box that contains her new charges—along with EIGHT of their closest friends.

Though Ms. Little repeatedly requested of the hatchery that they only send two chicks due to space limitations (as sending additional chicks for warmth is a common occurrence), and the hatchery repeatedly assured Chick that her two chicks would be accompanied only by a heat pack and each other, a mistake was made. Or the eight extras were more abundant than heat packs on shipping day.

So instead of two bottoms being checked for pasting up, ten were checked. (No pasting up!) Ten beaks were dipped into the water dish to ensure they knew where to go to get a much-needed drink. And ten chicks were placed into the large cardboard box that was hurriedly put in place of the aquarium that would have been a perfect brooder for two chicks but, due to its small size, would have been a feather-pecking disaster for ten.

Moral No. 1:  The sky is falling indeed. And apparently it's made of chicks—really, really cute chicks.