It's with heavy heart that I post now, after having to take a chick that had been injured during shipping to the veterinarian to be euthanized, rather than with the initial joy of the chicks arrival. After receiving an email last night indicating that the chicks had been shipped, I suspected we might be getting a call from the post office this morning. The phone rang at 6:30am (especially early for us on the week of spring break), and my heart raced as I read United States Postal Service on the caller ID. "Where can I pick them up? When? What? Wait until after 8:30am? No, I'm coming for them now!" The kids bolted from bed upon the announcement that the chicks had arrived, and we rushed into clothes and into the car, coaxing the heat to warm the car before receiving precious cargo. A surprisingly small white box of peeping was delivered into my hands, and the children and I talked to it on the ride home, Ursula improvising songs of welcome.
We nervously opened the box, to find most of the little bodies huddle together against one side, asleep or simply trying to stay warm - but I glanced anxiously for any signs of not-life, breathing an unexpected sigh of relief at the absence thereof. I gently cradled each bird's body and dipped its little beak in water a couple of times before releasing it into the kiddie pool cum brooder, and was delighted that they then began to drink on their own.
As I got deeper into the package, I noticed one little body whose head was hidden - when I pulled her up, her head stayed down, stretched out and curved up to her breast. I tried to massage her neck back up, hoping it was just cricked that way, and for a couple of hours fussed over her - warming her at my breast, trying to pull her head up the right way, even trying to fashion her a little cardboard collar to hold it up - none to any avail. She couldn't right herself to walk, despite having been given a chance to put forth that survival effort, and finally, hating to watch her suffer until she died of hunger or thirst, I made an executive decision to have her euthanized, knowing I don't have it in my mother's heart today to dispatch a day old chick from this life.
What I had been thinking of primarily as a lesson in life for my children turned out today to be a lesson also of the fragility and loss thereof. As we drove to Village Vet., Ursula holding the baby swaddled in a blanket, and softly singing to her and petting her head to soother he cheeps of distress, my throat tightened and heat welled behind my eyes - the hot tears refusing to fall until the care was safely parked. We went in and I began to cry in earnest, presenting the chick to the vet. tech. for euthanizing. "I'm a terrible farmer", I said. "I can't even find the heart to ease her suffering myself."
But life does, as it must, go on. There are 25 yet living chicks who need us to care for them with hearts unburdened by the weight of grief. Their soft peeps and mad dashes across the newspaper reminding me that as long as there are babies to care for, this mother's heart will survive.
We nervously opened the box, to find most of the little bodies huddle together against one side, asleep or simply trying to stay warm - but I glanced anxiously for any signs of not-life, breathing an unexpected sigh of relief at the absence thereof. I gently cradled each bird's body and dipped its little beak in water a couple of times before releasing it into the kiddie pool cum brooder, and was delighted that they then began to drink on their own.
What I had been thinking of primarily as a lesson in life for my children turned out today to be a lesson also of the fragility and loss thereof. As we drove to Village Vet., Ursula holding the baby swaddled in a blanket, and softly singing to her and petting her head to soother he cheeps of distress, my throat tightened and heat welled behind my eyes - the hot tears refusing to fall until the care was safely parked. We went in and I began to cry in earnest, presenting the chick to the vet. tech. for euthanizing. "I'm a terrible farmer", I said. "I can't even find the heart to ease her suffering myself."
But life does, as it must, go on. There are 25 yet living chicks who need us to care for them with hearts unburdened by the weight of grief. Their soft peeps and mad dashes across the newspaper reminding me that as long as there are babies to care for, this mother's heart will survive.
