The Chicks have Arrived

It's old news to a lot of you, but we have chickens!

Yes. Quite against the better judgment of the reasonable side of my brain, I'm excited. And I have succumbed to the adorableness of chicks.

And half of them already have names. Even the hypothetical ones we hope to get.

They arrived on Saturday. Mom went to pick them up. (She only wanted a few to start and couldn't order less than 25.) Half a dozen red something-or-other pullets and two banties (which could be either hens or roosters). We got them all settled and then just stared at them for a while, laughing and "oooh"ing. They all have this funny habbit of melting when they go to sleep. The first time it happened, I thought one of them had died. There she was, sprawled out on the bottom of the box, head cocked at an odd angle. One poke and she was up, and we all laughed some more.

The banties are about half the size of the red ones, and the smaller of the two has been picked on and practically trampled relentlessly. When I went to work Saturday night, I was sure I would come home to find him dead (yes, we call that one "he"), because he'd been very unsteady and listless most of the time. He's still alive, though. However, he's definitely the "runt", if chickens have those.

The red ones could be Buff Orpingtons, Rhode Island Reds, or New Hampshire Reds. If their coloring now is any way to tell, we might have one or two of each. Most have dark reddish backs and heads, and one has defined red stripes on her head and the sides of her back. One is a light creamy color without much red at all. Since Buffs are the lightest of the three types, I think the last one is a Buff. Therefore, I called her Lobelia.

Yes. I know. But I couldn't help it.

We all (indeed, everyone in the family including the dogs and, unfortunately, the cat) have spent a lot of time with the chicks. There's almost constantly someone peeking in to make sure the runt is still alive, and to say "hello" to the others. And, of course, to pick them up and play with them. Dad and I have even held one for Sasha to look at. She's been real gentle about the whole thing, sitting still with just her tongue moving (and it never stops moving). "Chicks are friends, not food."
Only once has any of the chicks willingly got into our hands, and that was for Heather. The rest of the time, they either cower or flap their wings and try to jump the three feet back to their box.

Mom has to keep reminding us that chickens aren't the brightest. I'm reminded of finding salamanders in Vermont when I was younger, and of how they kept walking when you picked them up, right off your hand.

Running with the idea that the banty runt is going to be a rooster, I dubbed him Euroclydon (or "Rocky").

I couldn't help myself. Wes asked, "What kind of dinosaur is that?" It's actually the storm that blew Paul's ship off course. (Call me a dork, but it's a cool name.) I've been wanting to use it as a name for a while now. I'd prefer to attach it to a dragon, but those are kind of hard to come by, and dogs stop responding when the word is longer than two syllables, so chicken it is. (Watch. "Rocky" is going to be a hen, along with all the rest.)

Those are only two I've named. Allenna named the striped one, but I can't remember what, and Heather has only named her hypothetical silky. It will be Ginger.
They'll probably be in the house for a month and a half at least, based on how the weather has been all March. By then, I think the novelty will have worn off and we'll be playing with them out of necessity. Mom's chiropractor (one of her leading sources on all things chickens, if you can believe it) said when she had chicks she would play with them, letting them roam around her when she sat down and talking to them, and they were some of the nicest chickens she'd ever heard of. So that's our mission.
Mom thinks the non-Buffs among them might corrupt the Buffs, who are supposed to be docile and friendly as a rule. Probably that idea that good in the company of bad tends to turn bad, not turn bad to good, or something. (The illustration of one bad apple in a bunch of good ones.) It probably has something to do with how generally good-natured Hershey couldn't teach Sasha manners.
Comparing pictures of chicks to mature chickens, it's obvious their coloring can change drastically. I don't know if we'll be able to keep these guys straight very soon.
This whole "naming the chickens" thing has come to prove to me that if a person insists on something long enough, odds are everyone else might decide they're willing to accept it (within reason). It only took around 40 hours of me calling the light-colored chick Lobelia for the rest of the family to play along. Now to introduce them to Roisin....