Close calls

I came close to losing this chick tonight.

I really believe that you are never closer to the cycle and life and death than on a farm. Today was one of those days that really reinforced that belief for me.

Earlier this week, the young Polish chicks I've been raising in my sunroom brooder finally made the journey out to the coop, to join their slightly older flockmates. After a few days of careful separation and supervision, I finally let them free in the coop and pen to forage and sunbathe with the others.

The temperatures were beautiful all week - warm, sunny, and in the mid 70's - but they really took a nosedive earlier today, plummeting back to the mid 50's. I checked the weather, and saw there was a frost advisory for tonight with temps in the 30's! Temps this low just aren't safe for young chicks who have yet to develop all their feathers. Even for adult hens, it means flipping on the heat lamp I keep attached to the coop ceiling.

With these temps in mind, I doubled up in a warm sweatshirt and walked out to the coop to put the girls to bed. I shut them safely in their coop every night, and usually I find them already half-asleep on their roosts by the time I arrive. As I laid down a thick bed of fresh straw to help insulate them overnight, I did my nightly chicken count - and came up short.

One of my young Polish chicks was missing.

As I looked around the pen anxiously, I caught a little scurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. Half-hidden underneath the coop (in a space only 3" off the ground) was the missing Polish, looking tired and a little scared, settling down here and there only to get back up and peep. The woven wire fencing I had installed to block the space under the coop was in vain - apparently there was a back entrance I didn't know about before. The temps still hadn't dropped to dangerous levels, but I knew that if I didn't get her out by nightfall, she would fall asleep under there, and not wake up tomorrow morning. It was a terrible, terrible feeling.

I cut a small hole out of the woven wire fence with bolt cutters, grabbed a handful of grain and threw it in front of the hole. For a little over an hour, as I watched the sun setting, I sat hushed in front of that hole, waiting and praying that the little chick would venture out. Several times she poked her head through, only to disappear again.

Thankfully, she finally did squeeze through the hole - and it was the most wonderful feeling to scoop her up in my hands and carry her safely back to her home in the coop. I lined the chicks' bed with fresh straw and threw down an extra cup of chick feed for her and her siblings, and watched as they all huddled together to sleep. I'm pretty sure it was one of the very best feelings in the world.

I guess close calls like these are just part of the package in this kind of lifestyle. It doesn't bother me - I find it more humbling than anything. I'm willing to accept that next time, sadly, the outcome might not be as good. It's difficult, but for me it provides a sobering reminder of how unpredictable this life really is - and like my little chick, how innocent we can be to that fact, even in the thick of things.