We have chicks!

We have chicks! Four tiny little fluff balls from a feedstore in the next county that stocks about 80 varieties each spring. We’ve been thinking about raising a few backyard chickens for years (and stupidly didn’t do it when we had a house on a half-acre lot). But this year is the year, and we moved a few gignormous rhubarb plants in our small-to-average size urban backyard to make room for a coop.

Here’s the lineup:

Lady Marmalade (a Buff Orpington)

Coco (a black Australorp)

Miss Buttons (a Barred Rock)

Babette (a Blue Wyandotte)

They rode home on my lap in a recycled Henry Weinhard’s 12-pack beer box, peeping all the way. They do a lot of that. Peeping. And pooping. Peeping and pooping. And pecking. The three P's.

I dutifully dipped their beaks in water when we got them home and into their brooder, even though I wasn’t sure if I needed to do that with chicks who didn’t arrive in the mail direct from a hatchery. I was quite relieved when, on the gazillionth time I checked on them, I actually witnessed each one eating and drinking. Whew! They were tired from their journey, and I knew from my research not to freak out if they collapsed so hard they looked dead, which they did.