It just sort of worked out that way.
Lacy was one of a pair of 4-week-old Buff Laced Polish hens we brought to the farmstead in June in anticipation of our grandson's visit. We thought he would enjoy helping out with some "little ones" during his stay, kept as they would be in a small enclosure inside the barn. Indeed, throughout his stay, he helped me feed and water them, added bedding material, and cuddled with them under supervision. They are, after all, quite cute - a smallish breed with a mop top reminiscent of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Or a Dr. Seuss character.Eventually, near summer's end, the time came for the young ones to join the older ones in the chicken yard - a move accomplished without incident, until on the second night, for reasons and by methods I'll not detail, the two were reduced to one. Lacy, the remaining Polish - so named because of the delicate scalloping pattern of the feathers - was clearly lost. Deprived of the only companion she had ever known, in a foreign environment populated by older birds (including two rather intimidating roosters), and unsure of her place, she spent her days in self-imposed isolation. If she hadn't removed herself to a remote part of the chicken yard, she had slipped completely through and outside the mesh fence, away from interference and intrusive curiosity, but also away from food and water.
As evening descended through the course of those subsequent weeks, all the other chickens made their way routinely up the ramps and settled themselves for the night. Lacy remained outside, alone. As I approached the gate to make my way inside to secure the coops, Lacy sprinted in my direction from beneath a nearby tree. Pausing, I watched as she first circled my legs, then stepped gingerly from behind me, between my feet, where she stopped, looking up at me as if to say, "you may pick me up now."And that's the way the subsequent weeks proceeded: All the hens and roosters climbing up to bed; Lacy remaining outside, waiting for my approach; hurrying my way, circling and then standing between my feet; me, picking her up, stroking her soft feathers and singing a few lullabies before inserting her inside the coop through its back door. Cute, tender, dear - but a little high maintenance. Helpers and the housesitter who occasionally filled in for me didn't quite know the routine.
Recently, Lacy has found herself slightly more comfortably adapted to the flock. She still prefers her own company, but increasingly nearer the others and involved. More tellingly, come evening she puts herself to bed, albeit reluctantly. I watch through the window.
I had come to think of our personal time as a tender memory.
Until Sunday evening.
We had been away for a few days, attending an out-of-state retreat. Our beloved housesitter was in attendance throughout our absence, seeing to the needs of the dogs, the household, and the flock. We arrived back home just briefly ahead of nightfall. After relieving the car of luggage and the accumulated trash of travel, I pulled on my boots and headed out back. It wasn't quite bedtime, and the chicken yard was still busy with last minute scratching and pecking. I stood in the center of it all, enjoying the reunion, while over the next several minutes everyone began making their way up the ramps.
Except Lacy. Skittering across the yard in my direction, she took her former place between my feet. I was touched. Just as I was about to bend down and pick her up like in the "old days," she twisted her neck up to look me in the eye, turned back toward the view at hand, and pecked the top of my boot.
Once.
Hard.
As if to say,
"Where the heck have you been?"
Or just perhaps, in her own clumsy way,
"I missed you."
And then she trotted away, proceeding through the hatch, up the ramp, and inside with the others; settling down for a good night's sleep.
At first I was startled.
Then amused.
And then, I'll admit it, a little disappointed.
Securing the coops for the night, I made my way back inside; feeling like something of an "empty-nester" all over again.
