One of the women I conversed with about buying chickens was interested in the Silkies. Many people overlook the breed because they do not lay every day and their eggs are admittedly smaller. But those of us who know them believe they make up for it in softness, broodiness, and their gentle nature. 

She said she would take at least four and what was even more significant, she was interested in a rooster. She arrived with her son after an hour in the car, and I tried to gauge how many she wanted. I picked up my noble roo Nessa, who has faithfully protected his girls for two years. Nessa always announces treats to the flock without so much as sampling them, and stands in vigilant watch when free ranging. Every time he believes I am mistreating one of his girls he pecks my rubber boots. But he was merely indignant when I placed him in a box. His feathers were, well, you know.

"Here are a few white hens as well," I said gently adding Lucy, who has been setting on eggs for five weeks, undeterred by the fact that I collect the cache every day. Horton has nothing on Lucy. 

Three wet children happened by, the same ones who have visited my chickens many times. I usually ask them not to chase the flock but today was different. 

"Can you catch any?" I invited. They tossed down their towels and dashed around the yard. I knew I had a lot of Silkies, a direct result of the broodiness I spoke about, but they seemed to be multiplying like the tribbles in Star Trek.

After the box was full I tentatively  asked if she wanted a few more. She nodded. I found another box and the race continued. Her son and my three neighbors ganged up on two hiding under a bush, which were worth as much as the one in my hand.

"What kind is this one?" she asked when her son petted the little special needs pullet called Tiny Tim. 

"I am not sure, really. She is kind of slow." What I did not say was that every morning for two weeks I had expected to come out and find her dead. Electrolytes, liquid vitamins and chicken medicine had not made any improvement. One day the man across the street told me she was walking down the road. Alone. Tiny had gotten lost between the pen and the coop. 

In the end the woman took all of my Silkies, and we agreed on a price. Her menagerie already included chickens, sheep, pigs and ducks so I expect them to have a great life. I only hope that the boxes stayed shut when she went around a corner. The possibility of ten birds flapping around her moving car seemed ominous. 

About fifteen minutes later she texted me. Let's just assume she told Siri the message and kept her eyes on the road. 

"My son really wants that little black one. Can we come back for it?" she asked.

"Of course!" I looked across the room at my own special needs son. There was a frightening day six years ago when he ambled down the road alone, trotted up the steps and into a house. While he watched their television a posse of fifty people and four squad cars searched for him. 

I thought about Charlie Brown and the spindly Christmas tree. He knew the tree needed him. Which it did. This little boy seemed to feel that same calling. His mom sent me a picture of him holding Tiny Tim which I am sure she took while stopped at a red light. 

I have a feeling the bird will be just fine. And I will always go looking for my son.