In a large box in a corner of our dining room lie five small, fluffy shapes. They are quite still apart from the gentle rise and fall of their tiny bodies. Two are yellow and two black, and the fifth chick, for that is what they are, looks as if it can’t decide. The tamest of the group, it has swirly markings reminiscent of Egyptian eye makeup.
It is a month since the birth of Lucky (see below) who now roams the garden as a thriving adolescent. We’ve become old hands at the incubator business, so when another sitting hen gave up in mid-term we just whisked her eggs into the warmth as easily as you please. A week later we watched them hatch.
And now we have a challenge that is entirely new to us: to rear chicks without a mother hen. We’re quite used to the sight of fond mums leading their brood across the lawn, stopping periodically to gather them up close. She teaches them everything: what to peck, where to scratch, how do drink. How would we manage all this ourselves?
First things first: keep the babes warm. The incubator was too hot for the hatchlings, hence the hastily assembled box fill with straw. A pair of spotlights was rigged overhead, and there the chicks, still a bit wet from hatching when we first installed them, gently recovered, ate and drank, stood up and fell over, stood up again and flexed their wings. A week on their are running about, scratching heartily, pecking noisily, cheeping constantly and filling the room with life. The children love them – who can resist the sight of five furry heads turning towards us whenever we enter the room?
Without a protective hen we can at last observe chicks at close quarters and one of the surprises is how much they sleep. We thought the frequent cuddle time with mum was just for warmth, but in fact, chicks are just like little children – they rush around till they are exhausted and then they grind to a halt. You can see it happening: their little eyes close, their knees buckle and they nod forwards until they are lying entirely prone, beaks down in the straw. And there they stay, all tumbled over each other.
In their waking times they are typical chickens, only smaller and funnier. They shove their food off its plate and then forage for it, scratching large chunks of straw aside. One invariably stands in the way while food is being dole out and gets covered, so the others peck it clean. Another will run around the box with a juicy morsel, chased by the others who are ignoring a perfectly good meal on the plate. They would rather jump into my water jug than wait patiently for me to fill their cup.
But there are still plenty of unknowns about keeping chicks in the house. They are just trying their luck at escaping from the box, though they don’t like the freedom and they squawk to be put back in. How will we integrate them with the rest of the flock outside? We still have to find out.
They are awake now, cheeping gently and pecking at the new, shove-proof container in which we have started serving their meals. Yet I just watched one fight the urge to sleep. It stood still and faltered, eyes drooping, and though its legs crumpled it would not give way. Up it sprang, beady eyes bright, ready to go on with the business of life. It’s hard work being a chick.
