We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.
We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.
The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:
It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.
As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.
I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.
The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."
Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."
Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."
Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"
Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"
I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.
Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):
Bernadette
Marjorine
Sal (short for Salmonella)
Hester Prynne
Gertrude (Gertie)
And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.
Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.
That leaves us with five.
(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).
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