He came running up to me, his eyes overflowing with
excitement, clutching something. I didn't really want
to know what that something might be. I just wanted to
dash to the store as fast as possible. My six- year-old
daughter had fallen and broken her leg three days before and
was being watched at my house now by our neighbor.
And here was my twelve-year-old son, Shmuel, with who-
knows-what!
"Look, Ima!" Breathlessly, he uncupped his hands, displaying
a yellow ball of fluff cuddled next to a red ball of
fluff.
"How cute!" I burst out. Instantly regretting it, I stated,
"No way!"
But I realized that I didn't stand a chance.
"Ima," he said very seriously, "a man came from that farm on
the other side of the hill with dozens of chicks. He said
that they were all male and that his farm doesn't need or
want male chicks. Instead of destroying them, he was selling
them for one shekel each."
Shmuel's eyes were pleading. I looked at the ball of cute
fluff. They sure were sweet. How anyone could tell males from
females on such tiny creatures I didn't know. As for
destroying them...
I looked up from the chicks and into Shmuel's deep green
eyes. He had always wanted a pet. Such a loving child, he
so needs to give. I also thought of my bored daughter at
home. She certainly would enjoy those small bundles of
softness. They were kosher animals and what better way
for a child to learn about taking care of something other
than actually doing it on a day-to-day basis...
I took a very deep breath and exhaled with multiple
stipulations. "You'll have to be totally responsible for
cleaning their box, and feeding them, and..."
"I will, Ima!" Shmuel twirled into the air, his fingertips
touching closely and carefully around his new friends.
So began our chicken adventure.
Straight from cheder every day, Shmuel went to
Sunshine and Big Red to faithfully feed them and give them
water. He would spend a long few minutes stroking their
pillowy down. Sunshine was shy but when Red heard Shmuel's
voice, he would run around the box cheeping loudly. Shmuel
would lower his hand; Red would cuddle into it. I don't know
which one looked more content.
Shmuel bathed Sunshine and Red every erev Shabbos,
fluffing up their feathers afterwards with my blow dryer on
low-warm. The birds would stretch out their necks and arch
their wings so that the warm air could blow all over them. It
was the highlight of their week!
My daughter enjoyed their company immensely and having pets
around helped her convalescence go much more smoothly. She
loved speculating when the chicks would begin to crow.
Meanwhile, Red and Sunshine were both growing rapidly. Their
down molted, filling their box with multicolored fluff.
Glossy red feathers appeared on Red's now-filled- out body.
Sunshine's gentle yellow feathers fit his name perfectly.
These chicks were turning into real roosters!
Shmuel was also growing rapidly. One day I noticed a smudge
of something on his upper lip. "Please go wash your face."
A few moments later, I saw that Shmuel's face was still
dirty. "Didn't I ask you to wash up?"
"I did already."
I took a few steps closer and saw that his upper lip didn't
have dirt on it. It had tiny dark hairs! Tears welled up in
my eyes. Shmuel was becoming a rooster, too, in his own
way.
One day Shmuel tripped into the house. Bending over the
chicken box, a button popped off his shirt as he said, "That
box (and here, Shmuel's voice crackled an octave lower) is
too small for Sunshine and Red. I want to build them (here
his voice suddenly squeaked) a wooden box."
I realized, among other things, that the chickens were here
to stay!
Although it took a while for me to admit it, I actually liked
our new pets. First, no one needed to take them for walks.
Second, aside from the birdseed that we fed them, they also
ate any leftover food we had, from soggy cornflakes to spilt
rice, which was a lot less wasteful than just throwing
leftovers away. And third, which for me was the nicest,
whenever I felt a little lonely, tired or depressed, I would
sit on the porch holding one or the other, stroking his neck
and back while he cooed. Under the wings was especially warm,
a perfect muff for my icy fingertips on crisp early mornings
or late evenings.
The chickens also had very melodious, soothing voices. Shmuel
frequently slept on the porch, saying that the cheeping
helped him to relax and fall asleep.
Red was Shmuel's favorite. As Red grew larger and stronger
over the next couple of months, Shmuel would unlatch the
roomy coop he had made (and which took up half of my porch)
and Red would half jump, half flutter onto Shmuel's shoulder.
Sunshine kept busy pecking at the dirt.
Shmuel liked the crown on Red's head. He admired Red's sharp
toenails that clawed into the dirt in the coop Shmuel had
made, as well as outside, when Shmuel took him out on
occasion. Red even unearthed (and then ripped apart with his
beak) a scorpion. My husband and I would joke about how some
families had watchdogs while we had watchchickens.
And then it happened! The day we were waiting for finally
arrived. Red began to crow! The last syllable dipping
drastically. At first I thought that this was a
malfunctioning rooster but as Shmuel's voice would sometimes
squeak at me, I realized that Red's voice was changing as
well. Within ten days time, Red finally bellowed out a full-
fledged cockle-doodle-doo that did justice to this now half-
grown, beautiful red rooster with a multicolored head. At 4
a.m., no less!
"Next will be Sunshine," Shmuel said to me later that day.
And the big day came a week later. Shmuel raced in from the
porch. "Ima! Sunshine! Look at this!"
There in his hand was an egg -- still warm.
Well, now there was one more realization in my life: don't
count your roosters until they crow!
