I had two hours before the festival to pick them up at the post office, finish constructing their kennel, set up their heat lamps and feed/water stations, teach them to drink, and make sure they were safe and warm and alive.
I couldn't do it. I had the wrong size of nails, it was raining, the roofing material required two people to lift it...
So half a dozen friends ran down the hill to help me handle dozens of fragile chicks. Jen, Evelyn, and Susan dipped the birds' beaks in the water, before dropping them into the kennel. The tiny chicks popped out from the chicken wire so Olan attached reinforcements while Evelyn helped with the roof.
It takes a village, y'know.
The chicks arrived on the first rainy day of autumn, and it hasn't stopped raining since. A tarp is keeping them dry and lamps are keeping them warm, but one bulb blew from water in the outlet. Still, we lost only one chick in the first five days. For 116 birds, that's not bad.
Another chick is dying now, a runty Buff named Pollito. She is the only bird I've named so far. She's resting in a tiny pot next to me right now, her eyes already glazed over, the blood gone from her extremities. I know she's going to die, but she keeps fooling me. She lets out a string of lively peeps, flaps her wing buds, and then flops over again, closes her eyes, goes still. I touch her, asking if she's gone now, and she peeps at me, opens her eyes a crack, petulantly asserting her continued existence.
I keep her warm in my hand, wondering if she will come around despite every sign of death in her fragile bones. If she does, I promise her, she'll live a long and healthy life, long after she stops laying.
At one time I believed that farmers only care about animals in terms of profit or loss, and they will neglect an animal as badly as they can until profitability is impacted. No doubt, there is a threshold at which it's impossible to discern one animal from another, to treat them as individuals -- horrific abuses are endemic to factory farming. But on a small scale, it's possible to stay human, to remember our responsibilities and sustain our ancient relationships with these animals.
My remaining layer flock was killed last week -- five birds strewn about on the grass, necks broken, half-eaten -- and I cried not because I have to buy eggs now, but because I loved those girls and I'll miss seeing their funny little faces. Pollito is just one chick among many, she's a runt, and maybe someone else would consider her expendable, not even worthy of a number, but she's a real living being to me, her own true self, and I'm sorry to see her go.
Many of these birds will be eaten, but they aren't numbers or dollar signs to me. The day they become such is the day I give up this work.
