Yesterday morning I left the house a little later than I like to on Monday mornings and I was just driving up the driveway toward the road when my cell phone rang. It was Fred, and when I answered he frantically asked “Where are you?”
“Just about to pull out of the driveway,” I said.
“The chickens are here!” he said.
We’d been under the impression that the new baby chicks were going to be born and shipped today, and would be here on Wednesday. Luckily, since I’d left the house late, it was no big deal to turn into the post office, pick up the chicks, and bring them home to situate them.
Last year I didn’t see the chicks until after Fred had set them up in their new home. This year it would have been silly for him to come home, get the chicks, and put them in their new home since I was right there. He finished the new brooder a few weeks ago, and I painted the inside of it (to protect the wood from baby chicken poop. Man alive, can little baby chickens poop like nobody’s business), and yesterday he set it up so that the only thing that needed to be done was to plug in the extension cord (which would turn on the heat lamps) and fill up the watering… thingy. Whatever it’s called.
So I left the box o’ chicks (a surprisingly smaller box than you’d think) in my car, since it was warm, and I brought the water thingy inside to fill it up with tepid water, and by the time I got the water thingy out to the garage (did I mention that the brooder is in the garage this year?) the heat lamps had heated up nicely. I managed to slop water all over the freaking place on my way back out to the garage OF COURSE. And when I stepped inside the brooder I simultaneously knocked down both of the heat lamps AND slopped a nice puddle of water on the floor of the brooder.
I’m lucky I didn’t electrocute myself, now that I think about it.
I set the heat lamps back up where they belonged and got the water set up in a corner of the brooder, and then finally opened the box o’ chicks.
I forgot how cute they are.
Although Fred had ordered 27 chicks, the packing slip listed 28 chicks, and we actually only received 24: 22 live, 2 dead in shipping.
I had to take the (live) chicks out one by one, dip their beaks in the water, and watch to make sure they got the idea. Every single one of them would sit there for a moment contemplatively, then tilt their heads back and swallow.
I about keeled over from the cuteness of it.
About halfway through the box of chicks, I called Fred in frustration.
“They keep getting in the water and sitting there!” I said.
“Are they able to get out of the water?”
“Yeah, they can get out, but then some of them get back in! Maybe they accidentally sent us ducks instead of chickens.”
“If they can get out, they should be okay,” he said.
“I’m not worried about that, I’m worried about the fact that they like to just all of a sudden fall asleep where they are, and I don’t want to come home to chickens who’ve drowned, even if it does ensure the survival of the fittest.”
We decided I’d find marbles or stones at Michael’s to put in the water so that even if they did fall asleep while they were in the water, they (hopefully) wouldn’t drown.
So far, all the ones who arrived alive still are. Let’s hope that continues.
She’s an Americauna like Frick and Flappy, so will lay blue eggs when she grows up. If you look closely enough, you’ll see her tongue sticking out.
Americauna on the left, a white crested black polish on the right. I’m already calling the wc black polish chicks “Ivana Trump.” Fred’s calling them “Don King.”
A sleepy Rhode Island Red.
The foster kittens are doing okay, though they’ve – Lindsay, mostly – started developing a bit of congestion, and the goopy eyes, so I’ve started them on Doxycycline and Terramycin, and hopefully that will take care of that. Poor kitties, they’d just gotten used to being happy to see me (they get half a can of food in the morning and another half at night to accompany the dry food they have available all day long), and now it’s “Am I happy to see you, or are you going to shoot nasty stuff in my mouth?”
Lindsay is such a little purr machine. She turns it on the instant she sees us, and even when we’re medicating her, she only stops purring until the medicating is over, then on goes the purring again.
Miz S asked if it was true that it’s unusual to have orange cats be female, and I do believe it is. I’ve heard or read (or possibly completely made up!) that about 75% of orange cats are male. So it’s a little unusual, but not unheard of. What are the chances that I’d end up with three orange tabbies given my complete and utter love for them?
(And no, we’re not keeping them!)
Newt is absolutely dying to get into the foster kitten room. I’d like to think it’s because he wants to bond with them, but really it’s because they get Science Diet Kitten to eat, and Newt enjoys a little kitten food now and then. I don’t want him to catch whatever they’ve got, so I’ve been keeping him out. Doesn’t stop him from trying every single time, though.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.