With Charlotte deceased, Rosie in a new home and spring arriving, I decided to try this chicken thing again.
I trotted myself, my grandson and my roommate down to Williams to purchase two new pullets the day before Easter. What was I thinking? Of course they didn’t have anything left except two leghorns, which I adamantly refused to buy, even though my grandson and roommate were begging me to. Instead, I put my name on a list for two Rhode Island Reds when the next batch of pullets came in.
It was a sad ride home with all the long faces in the car. My roommate was as disappointed as my grandson.
The chicks finally came in. Usually I pick out the two I want, but this time they were boxed and waiting for me at the check-out counter. I brought them home, sight unseen, and immediately deposited them in the plastic tote I had prepared for their arrival. One of the chicks was just lying there looking half dead. I put the wire top on the tote, installed the heat light and headed straight for the phone.
“This is Nancy Pocklington. I just left your store with two Rhode Island Red pullets and I want to let you know one of them looks like she’s not going to make it. If she dies, I’ll want a replacement.”
“Sorry ma’am, once the chick leaves the store we aren’t liable for its survival. There’s no telling what happens to an animal once it leaves the store.”
“I brought it straight home and put it in the prepared box with food and water. I left the store fifteen minutes ago. The other chick is pecking at the sick one like they do if there’s an issue of survival.”
“All I can say is, separate the chicks so the strong one doesn’t hurt the weak one and see what happens.”
Miraculously, the weak chick was fit as a fiddle the next day. She earned the name Pig Sty because she loves covering herself with dirt. The other chick was dubbed Bossy Biddy. She is bossy!