A multitude of pulchritudinous puffballs arrived yesterday around lunchtime, peeping sweet nothings but looking a little worse for wear.  We ordered them from Murray McMurray Hatchery last November when it became apparent that the chicken attrition rate had gotten to the level that we might have to, horrors, actually buy eggs from the grocer.  Between the Great Coyote Massacre of 2007, some nasty hawks, and a nosy owl, we were down to less then ten hens.  Since they lay every other day on average, we have six mouths to feed, and I like to bake, this wasn’t cutting it.  To the computer…

The hatchery’s minimum chick order is 25 yet I had no trouble filling it, Silver Spangled Hamburgs, Speckled Sussex, Buttercups, Columbian Wyandottes, and many other varieties filled my virtual shopping cart.  Young David had been asking for Sultans for two years now.  Exotic snowy white chickens with feathered feet and crested heads, they went into the cart as well.  Excited for the promised February delivery and happy knowing we would have new friends in a few months time, we gathered the needed supplies and waited.

The mailman brought them to the door, unusual for the post office typically calls us for a pick up.  The Child of Four was beside himself with excitement. 

“I will call them My Friends,” he declared.

Then, they all started dying.  Three right away, then about two an hour, until as of my last check, we had 12 of the original 26.  Yes, even the free rare bonus chick died.  The Sultan chicks adorned with adorable white puffballs and fuzzy feet and legs met their maker with the rest.  Only the heavy breeds remain viable, the Orpingtons and Wyandottes, a Rhode Island Red, two Black Langshans.  And I’m sad and mad, not glad and cannot ask my dad.

I got on the phone with one of Murray McMurray’s finest this morning and explained our heartbreak, how all of Anthony’s friends are dying, how young David had already named the Sultans.  Tomorrow, I will call again to report on any new losses should they occur.  I’ve been promised a new order of chicks, packed correctly as the box was too large and I think they got too cold to survive.  In the meantime, I am damned weary of trying to rescue dying birds with sugar water, love, and mash.