We were not going to get any more chickens this year. We had 22--way more than we should. I was seriously sad. And then Brian went to the local feed store. And they had Polish chickens. Which Caroline had been begging to have but we had only seen them online in the past. (Polish chickens are the ones that look like they have afros.)
So Brian went back to the feed store to get medicine and came home with another chick--just in case she didn't make it so Polly would have a friend. Brownie has continued to live, but is requiring medical attention a few times a day. It means we have to clean her eye out and put coconut oil on it. Tonight, we had to clean the hay and snot out of her beak. Poor baby hated it, but it had to be done. This afternoon, she pooped twice when I was cleaning her eye. Yes, it was gross, but poor thing couldn't help herself.
After we doctored her up, she got a treat. We mixed her food with water (that has some medication in it) so that it's an oatmeal consistency. She gobbled it up and made a mess--all over herself and our countertop--just like a baby.
But I do.
Last year, I found myself holding a baby chick for a couple of hours to keep her warm until Brian could get home with another heat lamp. I know I've passed the point of crazy. And like most crazy people, I really don't care.
It makes me wonder how many other things I will discover about myself as I grow older. I never liked guacamole or potato salad until a few years ago. When I was younger, I thought I would know everything about myself by the time I was 40. I don't know that I realized how much I would continue changing and growing.
And just in case you didn't get enough chicken pictures yet, here's another one from when we moved the babies out to the big coop a few days ago.