The new generation of B.E.s has brought about their own array of interests and concerns. In May, its eldest member completed kindergarten. When I asked her what she liked most about school, she replied immediately, “Snack and recess.” As the academic year progressed, the teacher displayed a gift for creativity in setting her pupils off on the course of their education.
Toward the end of the second semester, she brought to the class two chicken eggs for the children to incubate. We were given regular reports on the process as the three weeks of incubation proceeded. Finally, and happily, both chicks hatched and the babies emerged to pursue life on their own.
The teacher divided the class for girls to name one chick and the boys the other. The girls chose Ethan and the boys picked Cherry, and thus they became individuals, rather than mere birds, but the end of the school year was approaching rapidly, and the question of where the two newbies would reside became of critical importance.
Not to leave readers in dark suspense as to the resolution of that issue, the B.E. volunteered to take them to her family farm, with a week’s interlude at their city home. My Good Wife graciously acquiesced for them to establish temporary residence in our utility room—anything for a B.E.! I prepared a nice, comfortable box to be their new home until they feathered out at which time they could move to the barnyard.
The process proceeded apace, with occasional comments from my Good Wife to the effect of asking when Ethan and Cherry would be joining Gladys et al. in their permanent new home. She accepted my promises that the time would be forthcoming shortly, and when the big day arrived, she was overjoyed.
I arranged separate quarters in the barnyard to protect the adolescent chicks from having their meals usurped by Gladys, especially as I wanted Ethan and Cherry to get the full benefit of their baby mash, free from predation by greedy older fowl. I have witnessed their shameless behavior when I happen to drop a bit of the mash on the ground as I pass to the chick enclosure.
Gladys is #1 in the pecking order, and I do not want Ethan and Cherry to experience a situation akin to being hazed in the manner of first-year cadets in a military academy. Before joining the flock/gaggle, they must be able to stand on their own unintimidated by their barnmates. Managing the various psychoses in the avian world is not a task for which I have been trained. I rely on experience and instinct to tell me what to do.
Throughout these two months, we have been trying to determine what Ethan and Cherry’s breeds are. We have concluded that Cherry is a Blue Andalusian, a Spanish chicken ancestrally, and Ethan is a white chicken, but not a Leghorn nor a White Cochin. To my Good Wife’s delight, both are hens. She never has said that she hoped they were hens, but rather, “I hope they are not roosters.” At present, we have no roosters, and I miss the wake-up crowing calls in the morning.
As I see the young-uns maturing, my fears for their oppression by the older fowl have lessened. They clearly are more interested in what I am up to than in what their fellow feathered relations are doing. After all, they realize that I am the one who feeds them.
Each week, the B.E.s go to the barnyard to check on their progeny. We have decided not to change their names, although I had speculated on Ethan becoming Athena, and as a name, Cherry works for either gender. The babies now are adolescents, and we hope in a few months to be the recipients of their eggs.
