I returned from my trip to Europe, and nothing was quite as it should be. Somehow the way I do my ranch and the way he does the ranch are quite different. He is what I call a minimalist and I imagine he calls me the opposite of that.
Anyway, for one reason or another, Theronda had been sitting on her nest for the best part of the three weeks I was away. “You didn’t push her off?” I squealed. “Well, no, sometimes, not really…” his voice faded away. I had become well versed in the art of pushing chickens off their nests. If you want eggs, you really have to! But here we had it, she had been sitting on this very warm and fertile nest for nearly a month now. A quick visit to Mr. Google and I was not reassured. “She’s going to be a really lovely mama,” husband said a little whimsically.
I grab my chicken stick and go to shove it gainfully under her bottom when I see two little eyes looking out at me. Theronda had given birth to a little tweet. I could not believe it. We had never had a chickling hatched at Solace before, so there were a lot of happy noises going on, including the puff and chortle of Papa Geronimo who was strutting his stuff like he had done it all by himself, and visiting relatives in the form of Maverick and Malcolm, Mavis and Rita — his or her duck cousins who love a bit of gossip.
“Theronda had a baby!” I would tell anyone who listened. I posted a picture of Nugget, as I called him or her and heard much cooing the world over. “I must come and see him!” one chorus echoed. “Congratulations to all at Solace! You must be very proud!” The accolades poured out and I felt like quite the strutting grandma, as I endeavored to take his or her portrait for the social media audience out there and, mostly, failed.
Then I started to worry. Now we had a new baby at Solace — truthfully as big as a tootsie pop — we had to keep the tiny baby alive. Nature is pretty harsh out here in the countryside and the best plans do not always work out. From domestic cats to hawks, owls, bob cats, snakes … you name it. There would be so many creatures itching to have baby Nugget as a tiny starter in their daily search for food.
I did a little test of the fortitude of the baby’s parents, grabbed a hold of Nugget and took off running. If you have seen the film “Chicken Run,” it was like that. I’m not sure who was running faster and flapping harder at my heels — mother or father. And mother just about poked a hole in my leg when she caught up with me. That made me feel a little better after I checked there was no actual damage done to my leg. If Ma and Pa were that aggressive with the human they knew to be a pretty safe bet for a daily smorgasbord of a breakfast or lunch, they would be protecting that little booger much better than I had at first thought.
I trod precariously out to the Sanctuary at Solace later in the day and the family of three was out and about on top of each other’s toes every peck of the way. Nugget was not a fan of the chick starter I had swiftly procured but had a good go at the canned corn I pulled out of our cupboards, and heartily tucked into the squished bug that Mama Theronda had graciously regurgitated for the baby. My gosh it was still alive! That evening the same thing.
Questions flew in from near and far … “Is the baby OK? Will he or she survive?” I almost expect a delivery of flowers, or at least canned corn.
“And how is Nugget?” my father enquired from across the world. “Do tell!” My friends abroad wanted a video and my friends closer to home wanted to come by and visit (bring canned corn!).
Every time I think about quitting social media, I am reminded of the fun side of it. I am reminded of the good qualities you can witness in a human, when you tickle their sweet side, and how we are all basically big softies.
“Nugget loves the pumpkin bread!” I tell my friend, as if I was reporting on my grandchild’s first taste of proper food. “His Mum doesn’t even have to regurgitate it for him.”
Then came the difficult questions. “Boy or girl?” Mr. Google was a little unsure about this, since it seemed to have much to do with the tail feathers and maybe it was still too soon, blah blah. But if Nuggy turns out to be male, he will be headed for the hills of Arroyo Seco, where there is an animal lover who is even more anal about her flock than me. (Can’t have two roosters — they will fight to the death! Even if they are beloved at this stage in the proceedings.) If Nuggy is a girl, we can only hope we get paid back for the copious cans of corn we have supplied her with, maybe at least an egg a day would do it. I was rather disturbed to read that, having given birth, Theronda would not be laying any eggs until next spring. That is a very long time to wait for farm-fresh eggs! But then Nugget is worth all the egg deprivation with his or her splendid presence, his or her magical appearance on the scene at Solace, and all the love and concern bestowed on this tiny thing.
There is no moral to this story, except that we should all love living things more than we do, however small. I am delighted to be able to share the now one-week-and-a-bit adventures of Nuggy with you in the hope that he or she grows into a big hulk of a chicken or cock and, ultimately, defies all the odds of survival in these parts.
