Chicken Little 2.0

We have one breed of chickens on the Farm. One. I have been very careful about that. I spent hours researching types and kinds and qualities and personalities, finally deciding on the all-practical and never cuddly Golden-tipped Wyandotte. It was very, very (very) important that they all look the same. That they all act the same. That in no way would one stand out from any of the others. Because I knew what would happen if one did….

Hannah would have a new favorite, and THAT chicken would be with us for ten plus years, just like Chicken Little has been.

And it was going so well. We had hen upon hen of Wyandottes. Not one of them unique in any way. Not one of them wanting to be cuddled. And we had one rooster. It was a perfect plan.

And then I went and got soft. A dear friend of mine called. Her chicks were in trouble. Something about a fox. Would I please take them to my place? Yes, of course I would I answered. I may have a plan, but I’m not heartless.

Okay. New plan. The Wyndottes would be kept out back, and these new chicks would be kept in the front, far, far from the others. And, when they grew, they would be given new homes to enjoy. And grow they did. Some of them into hens, some of them into roosters.

I frowned, looking at them. Their coloring. It was a bit too familiar.

“Isn’t that just like Chicken Little?” a Hannah asked one day as she walked by the front chicken yard.

“No,” I quickly answered, shooing her away. “And besides, they’re not staying.”

And it was true. They did not stay.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw them go. That was a close one.

“Jacob-” I asked that very day. “Please bring in today’s eggs.”

And so he did.

Those eggs, each one, was placed into the incubator where each was bathed in warmed humid air and carefully turned and watched.

Twenty-one days later the first egg began to shake. A slight chirp was heard as a tiny beak poked through that hard shell. a small, wet, black bird tumbled out and tried to stagger to its feet. Instead it flopped to its side, appearing for all the world to have died.

I cried in dismay, but after an hour or so, it looked right as rain, all fluffy, walking like it always had done so. It was soon followed by thirteen others, just like itself. And then.

Yes. And then.

I peered closer. This chick that chirped and pecked and staggered was not black at all. No. It was yellow.

Just like the chickens that had just left.

Just like Chicken Little.

Hannah came into the room and before I could divert her, she squealed with delight–“OH!!! Is that a new chick?”

I nudged her to the door. She ducked and turned and scooped up the young chick, cupping it in her hand, bringing it to her cheek as she rubbed it’s soft down against her skin.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I know just what I’m going to call you…Chicken Little 2.0!”

I groaned. And sure enough, that’s just what she did.