You’d think I’d be strolling down the beach that is three minutes away, or in a park or pool- whatever kind or respite you had in mind for the summer- wrong. Well, partly wrong.
I’m in my home in the countryside, listening to the birds and banging away on my old clunker of a computer, when- thump- husband brings in a baby chick of some sort fallen from a tree. Its siblings are dead and this little guy (I’m assuming it’s a he) is the strongest of the bunch, although still covered in soft grey fuzz.
So I surf the internet looking for info and call up an old friend who is a Science teacher/ nature lover. Until he can fly, it’s a shoe box filled with toilet paper and baby food through a syringe every thirty minutes.
I go back to the new story I’m writing. I’ve got a deadline and the whole story is in my head, but how can you resist the gentle (and insistent) tweet of a baby chick?
He’s got his head stuck under a layer of feathers for now but he’ll let me know when he’s good and ready for his next meal.
This morning I find him out of the box. He’s jumped! Soon, I hope, he’ll be able to fly…
So I take him out and put him on my dwarf pine trees, no taller than myself so I can get to him no matter what. And I watch as he adapts to his new environment, liking it, too. He cocks an eye at me as if to say, “How come you didn’t bring me out here sooner?”
Because he was weak, starved and needed a bit of mothering. I’m supposed to let him go when he starts flying around the room. I sure hope he doesn’t start pooping all over the place. I would not be impressed.
I also hope I don’t get the empty nest syndrome when he flies away…