When my husband, the Knight, suggested getting chicks as an Easter surprise for our daughter, I had a nightmarish flash of being fully inoculated into country life.  Would I ever recognize the urban sophisticate I always viewed myself as?  I was sure something had been slipped into the water.

Once those self-involved thoughts passed through my head and not out my mouth (thankfully), I decided I was “open” to the idea.  My requirements were the Rook (our daughter) was involved in their care, he agreed to pickup the remainder, and I stay out of it completely.  The truth is I didn’t really want them. I didn’t see them as pets and therefore only saw the work involved.  However, we had recently been through a horrific flood and had been living out of two bedrooms and a small bathroom that were spared, for about four months at the time.  We lost a lot of “stuff” and the Rook had been a trooper.  His request hit my soft spot and I couldn’t summon the energy for a counter defense – I mean who can argue against baby chicks at Easter? I didn’t want to be deemed the Anti-Christ.

We decided on six hens, one of each variety, which were being offered as “free” at a local feed store.  As chicks, they were nothing short of adorable.  We introduced the dog to them slowly and he came to regard them as his babies, much like the Rook.  At three weeks old, we brought them into our daughter’s class and the students got to pet, hold and learn about them.  My sense that these babes were mere farm animals was waning.  They had already provided hours of entertainment, challenged a dog to reign in his most visceral instincts (and fall in love himself), and act as an educational “hands-on” opportunity for a bunch of admiring first graders.

At sixteen weeks old, summer was in full swing.  One of the six had begun to grow a little more “cocky” than the rest.  The Rook had named them:  Lollipop, Scout, Daisy, Rose, Strawberry and Penny.  Penny underwent a curious transition during a matter of days.  A very assured “cocka-doodle-do” escaped her, I mean his, lips.  The Knight and I were surprised at our excitement to add a rooster to the mix.  We decided to rename Penny, Kenny.  When the Rook came home from school, we received an adamant lecture about how we could not call a pet the same as one of her classmate’s names (you know, someone's feelings could get hurt).  Once again, Kenny underwent an identity change; he has become known here-to-for as Peter.

Around this time, Lollipop formed a curious habit.  We live on acreage and therefore the gang roams around freely during the day.  When we came out of the house to do the morning run to school one day, I saw a flash of gold out of my periphery.  Lollipop was bounding to the car as if she was shouting the age-old adage, “Shotgun!”  She sprinted up to the driver’s side door and sat there as if waiting for me to scoop her up, put her in the honorary co-pilot seat, and buckle her in.  She had to settle for a pet that first day, as I was so charmed by her behavior I didn’t know what to do (and we were, as ever, late for school).

She is now a part of our daily routine.  She escorts us to and from our car like a herding sheep dog-err-chicken.  We treat her and her sisters to a special treat we keep in a “tweet-tweet” bucket on the front porch.  They have also reached infamy within our town.  During the day, they toddle down our private drive, hang a right, and follow the stretch of green grass abutting the highway to spend time at the local feed store.  The owner Chris gives them lots of love and feed.  He swears they increase his sales.  I’m skeptical, but I do know they have created notoriety for themselves because when people find out I’m the “chicken owner”, I hear all sorts of charming stories. 

As summer waned, I went out to the hen house one day to find a magical gift.  There it was, our first egg.  I started jumping up and down as if I had won the lottery!  My excitement was met by a look of "allright Kate, take it down a notch" when I burst through the side door to share my enchangting loot with the Knight.  Not to be deterred, I tracked down the Rook.  In proper form, she jumped up and down with joy (it must be on my side).  Over the next couple weeks, we waited anxiously for our fragile gifts to be deposited overnight by our obliging hens.  Lollipop was the last to lay her eggs, and when she did, she was as true to her quirky form as ever.  She lays green eggs, it is a specialty of the Ameraucana breed. 

We now have four of the six chickens. Penny-err-Kenny-err-Peter was deemed to be too loud by the entire family.  Friends dared to ask us if we were going to have Peter stew.  I empathized, it wasn’t too long ago I thought these amazing creatures were going to be mere farm animals.  We found him a home through CraigsList – it seems there was a rowdy hen out there that needed to be wrangled in by a cocky cock.  We all have a place in this world.

Daisy was plucked one day from our yard by a stray dog; it was very sad.  It, too, became a teachable moment for the Rook, hell all of us, about the cycle of life.  It was earlier than we anticipated we would have to approach the subject – we were not prepared.  We all sobbed.  Her memorial is a bunch of painted rocks sitting in the back garden; it was the Rook's idea.

I have come to marvel the gifts that come from all life. My hope is I will stay forever open to embracing the beauty every being has to offer. 

Cheers to the country life!