We have six new baby chicks, and right now, they live in a cardboard box in the bathroom. They are always scritching and scratching and cheeping and fluttering as they climb right over the tops of each other and land in the water dish, and the dog is having a total nervous breakdown. She keeps dancing over to me, paws tippity-tapping, with a wild look in her eye, as if to say, “Something amazing is behind that door!! Were you aware of this? Because I just can’t even stand it!” Poor thing, she’s completely losing her mind.
Their cuteness is completely devastating. This one is a Buff Orpington, the only one of the six who isn’t frantic to escape me every time I put my hand down into the box. She (I hope it’s a she, I’m having flashbacks now) wanders over to me, eyes up, neck outstretched, jumps into my hand, as the others are having a good panic and flapping like crazy. She sits on my lap. She helped me write this blog post, just now.
My very favorite thing about living in the country is being able to have a few of these sweet creatures pottering around in my yard. Chickens have kept my flowerbeds neat and my raspberries free of bugs. They have clucked around in all weather, happy to scrounge around under the snow for the odd treat, impervious to rain. When I step into the yard, they hustle right over to see whether I have a treat for them. And the eggs are so beautiful. Welcome, little girls.