stella in the chicken coop

As a girl, we would devote one Sunday a month driving down to the State Hospital to see my insane grandmother and my severely retarded sister. Neither knew we were there but that was irrelevant. These long treks took us through hours of rich Illinois farmland. My imagination was planted with the seeds that one day I would live in a white house with chickens in the yard, adjacent to a large red barn and drive a tractor across acres of bottomland. That was my going to be my life but like many roads that turn into cul-de-sacs, that one didn't exactly pan out as planned. And yet, I did manage to score a half acre in the middle of a city and set about making it a farm of sorts with gardens, a dog and... chickens.

Chickens... or the girls as I affectionate refer to them... are the perfect urban can't-be-in-the-country pet. They don't require much room, eat the garbage, give eggs of all colors and sizes, and produce this wonderful compost. I run a very humane operation and when their laying days are over, export them down to the country where they live out their final days unsuccessfully dodging coyotes and wild cats. Roosters are avoided because I can't tolerate the gang bang treatment they dish out to the hens... over and over and over. I feel like I'm running a whore house for those cocky son's of bitches.

Anway, last week I splurge and order the rare and unusual laying collection from McMurry Hatcheries. They guarantee a minimum of eight varieties, all girls, that include Cochins, Campines, Red Caps, Blue lace Wyandotte and other a few other exotic breeds. True exicitement. I have always raised chickens but they have always come to me as chickens, never chicks but I was ready to take the plunge and try my hand with little peepers. The weather is warm, the coop is secure, the starter feed is in the bin... what could go wrong? Everything.

The post office called at the crack of dawn informing me my chick order had arrived. Driving home I feel I am in a car with a hundred screen doors that desperately need their hinges oiled. I carefully unpack the box and pour them into the brooding house watching as they strut around, discovering their new home. They find the water bowls and being thirsty a number of the girls take the plunge. "How cute, they're swimming. They think they're ducks."

I return fifteen minutes later to find five of them dead and another six shaking uncontrollably and falling on their heads. Whaaaat is going on? Being an urban farmer, my first reaction is to send them back. I notice that the dead are thoroughly wet, as if they drowned so I grab their little carcasses, put them in a plastic bag to deposit in the trash and scoop the remaining chicks into their travel case. Running around like a chicken with it's head cut off I yell for Tomas, "They're all dead. We need a heat light... we need the extension cords.... we need helllllp."

Quickly assessing the situation he gets the hair dryer and one by one we start blow drying their little feathers. It's a slow process but the technique is proving successful. The circulation returns to their feet, they stand alone, no bobbing head routine. I suggest that perhaps we should get the ones out of the trash and see if we can have any luck with them. It's a 'what have we got to loose' scenario until we pull them from the plastic bag. Any coroner in the land would take one look at the closed eyes, the legs straight as a road heading east and sadly shake their head while pulling the sheet over the corpse. But not Tomas. His mother died when he was four and giving up on any life is not written into his script. He dries and prods them, interprets the drooping head as a sign of fatigue. He insists all they need is a round of physical therapy to be like new. I keep muttering 'give it up big boy...' Yet he perseveres and I realize this is one of his strongest attributes... he never gives up. It's one of the obvious secrets to our 32 years of marriage. The guy doesn't know when to throw in the towel.

Returning a half hour later I am witness to a miracle. All five corpses are strutting around the table, chirping, bumping into one another. We give them another hour in the rehab ward before returning them to the brooding house where they are happily greeted by the other girls. Huddled around the feeding tray I am curious if they relate their near death experience to the others.... Yes yes, definitely saw the light and there was this warm wind blowing....but it just wasn't my time....

McMurry Hatcheries has hundreds of breeds of poultry but they may want to consider the new Lazarus line. I envision the ad: Guaranteed to bring you pleasure and an abundance of eggs; will survive subzero temperatures, scorching heat and a short trip to the other side. Money back guarantee not necessary.