Four people collaborated on an order of chicks in October. We chose Marans which are the kind that lay chocolate eggs, even if it is only color, not flavor, and white Silkie bantams. Those are the poodle of chickens, more pomp and less productivity, and they stay small enough to look like a toy. Another person chose reliable Barred Rocks, twelve hens and a rooster. We came to collect our peeping balls of fluff on a blustery day and brought them home to a warm box of wood shavings and a heat lamp in the dining room. We loved them.
The girls set out to come up with alliterative names. Since they are black with white markings Penguin was a shoe in, followed by Puffin and Piper. The bantams are harder to tell apart except to the most discerning eye, but they are Pumpkin, Pom Pom and Popcorn.
For the next few weeks we cuddled them, fed them lavishly, replenished their perpetually soiled water and rescued them when they escaped. It was easy to tell when the chirping became more frantic, as they faced the looming unknown outside the box.
But a week ago the owner of the Barred Rocks asked if anyone thought they had taken home the wrong chick. One of his was definitely an anomaly. I looked more carefully. Puffin was clearly more speckled than pure black. Gulp. How could we bear to give her away?
My thoughts hovered around how lovingly the other chicken owner had cared for his birds. Ours are snuggled into our laps in the evening, and bathed when their feathers get too yucky. Had he done that too? The twins were unhappy to think of saying goodbye to Puffin, but it was inevitable.
We arrived for the swap, and our chick obviously matched the ones in our friend's cage. He had separated the one that stuck out as all black. We did the deed quickly and Hope tried to make up for lost time by holding the chick inside her sweater.
We named her Pirate and doubled her snuggling time. She did not seem too traumatized by new siblings.
Years ago a woman told me that she was desperately lonely in her marriage. They had no communication, and the relationship was an empty routine. She believed strongly in marriage after death, and yet dreaded the idea of being with him to eternity.
She prayed to the Lord, and the answer came in the form of an invitation.
"He may not be your partner in heaven, but he is someone's. Take care of him for now if only out of kindness to her. Hopefully the woman who is married to your eternal partner will be kind to him too."
She could wrap herself around this. Yes. She would be good to him. He deserved as much and she deeply hoped that her future partner was being cared for as well.
A few months later, her feelings had evolved. After half a year of benevolence, their frosty relationship had melted into a warm one. One day a friend made a casual remark.
"Of course you don't know if you will be together forever."
She burst into tears and threw her arms around him.
While I doubt that love can change a Barred Rock into a Maran, it can absolutely change a dying marriage into a living one.
