Agast

This afternoon, after non-stop meetings and whatnot, I was invited to a friend's office to see newly hatched chickies. Real chickies. From eggs. In an office. Apparently, her child was involved in some school project . . . and she didn't want to chance anything happening to the new chickies while she was away for the day.

She had a chickie incubator in her office, and beside it a cardboard box with a desk lamp curved into it. . . and a water/food dispenser and some cedar shavings. She had two chickies in the box . . . and while I was there, a new chickie emerged from egg and was transferred from incubator to box.

I got to hold one of the little, yellow, complaining puff balls. I cupped it in between my hands, and within a few minutes, it rested it's little beak on my finger and fell asleep. I'm the chickie whisperer.

She explained that once the class project was completed, they would need to find good homes for the chickies, and did I want one? (See, there is always a catch.)

I laughed, because really . . . it never occurred to me I might someday have a real, live chickie of my own. Then, the thought was gone, when the realization of how "popular" a chickie would be in my feline household.

My friend explained that they had to be very careful about the homes they gave the chickies to . . . because one year, a family took one of the precious little things . . . and as it started to lose it's fun yellow color and started turning into a chicken they didn't want it anymore. But, rather than take it back, or give it to a farm, or even make mcnuggets out of it . . . they tried to flush it down the toilet!

I can't imagine having such little regard for life that you would try to flush a living thing down the john.

But, I'm not sad at the missed opportunity . . . in a way, I have my own chickie already.