The chick I wrote about last week that is part cat, in that she apparently has nine lives, is indeed sprightly. She lives across town with a friend who brought her back from the brink four times, and has shielded her from forgetful Silkies, felines, and hypothermia.

But spring break arrived on schedule, and her adoptive family had plans to go skiing. The regular chicken sitter who agreed to tend the twenty birds who live, get this, outside was not eager to take on a high maintenance newbie so I offered a place on my kitchen counter. Her "mother" arrived with jar lids of food and water, a wooden box with a cooling rack on top for security purposes and a heat lamp. The best part was a tool that shoots a red laser that will tell you the temperature of any spot. Since chicks need to be kept at a steamy ninety degrees for the first week or two, it is good to keep track of such invisible conditions. Plus it is fun to use. 

"Where is Cassiopeia?" I asked. 

"In my pocket," she brought out the white chick and put her in the box. "Just a heads up. She cheeps unless you hold her."

Cassiopeia settled in nicely to her new environs calling loudly to announce her arrival. But I am a veteran attachment parent. I could quiet her. For the next two hours I carried her in my cupped hands, in my sleeve, tucked in my sweater, under my chin, but the shrill sound of her cheeping never slacked. I worried about our tenants, with only a thin door between us. They could have a saturation point for decibels that makes my smoke alarm sound muffled. 

I took the box and heat lamp to my sewing room, to create more of a buffer and also so I could get some sewing done. I placed Cassie back inside, and her cheeping continued, like a relentless train whistle. I worked on a quilting project and talked to her. She cheeped back her discontent. 

I knew she was calling for a mama, and while there are four outside with a gaggle of three week old chicks, the temperature was nippy, and I doubted that Cassie could keep up with them. She stayed inside. 

The twins were more facile than me at chick comforting, and when they snuggled her beneath their shirts, Cassie finally calmed down. I was relieved. And insulted. 

Cassiopeia does not have a monopoly on whining. Most of us can cheep endlessly about the less than ideal circumstances that comprise life. But as I toted her around, with little impact on her contentment, I wondered about my own complaining. When the people I have been known to nag actually do what I ask, does my response change? 

"Clear your dishes... blah, blah, blah... Empty the trash... cheep, cheep, cheep... Do your chores... whine, whine, whine." 

Noticing when circumstances improve takes effort. Perhaps more than a two ounce being can muster six days out of the shell. But we have no such excuses.