And, a tiny little Happily Ever After.

Last night at dusk, as Starboard and the other kids were starting to get ready for bed, we brought Punt out to the nursery. We gently placed her beside Starboard, close enough the baby could nestle under mom if she wanted, and where Starboard could see her but hopefully not deliver a killing blow before she recognized the intruder. The three sibs stood up tall as geese and watched the newcomer carefully. We watched carefully, too. We didn’t know if Starboard would recognize Punt, after her week in neonatal sick bay. Grown chickens are so astronomically bigger than week-old chicks. I had seen a hen reject a baby before, and it only took a couple blows of that dinosaur beak to cause real damage. Punt was scared. She started beeping her Red Alert (Lonely), the one that had me regularly running to the bathroom (where sick bay is) to crouch beside the box and dangle my hand inside, to give Punt someone to interact with. I used my fingers to indicate things to try, some food or water, and to encourage her to preen, and to scratch in the hay for tidbits. As she got stronger I taught her to run back and forth across the box to find the hand and receive tickles. When she got tired she’d sit on my palm and sing to herself.

As soon as Punt started sounding Red Alert, Starboard went into action. She began clucking in a particular way that—judging from the actions of the other siblings--means, “just come right over here under my wings, dearie, Mommy’s got you.” Punt tried to hide. Starboard picked up her skirts and followed, trying to settle over her, but Punt dodged. It was like watching someone try to catch a bug under a cup.

Starboard never stopped clucking the safety song. Punt gradually went quiet. We stole away, but Punt followed and initiated Red Alert again.

I managed to stay away a full 15 minutes. In the uneven flashlight glare, I saw that Starboard had settled with the other chicks, and Punt was right in front of her. Starboard was still singing. Punt was quiet, but uncertain. Starboard reached her big teradactyl head toward the baby and I held my breath. Would she peck? But she just rubbed her cheek along the baby’s side, and Punt took a hesitant step closer.

At the next check, all was quiet and there were no chicks visible. Punt had made it home.

In the morning, Punt still remembers her hand mom, and paid me a visit, though she soon wandered off after her family. She’s a bit smaller than her siblings, and not as sure of what her mom is saying. But it looks like happily ever after, to me.

The delicacy and tenacity of a tiny life.

When Starboard finally arose from the nest after her latest clutch hatched, we discovered one little brown chick not doing so well. The last to hatch, maybe it was a little premature. Maybe it got chilled as it emerged, since mom was already busy with the three older chicks. While its three siblings bopped around, fluffy and beeping, this one sprawled helplessly in the detritus of the nest, amid broken shells and the extra stinky poop bombs a broody hen leaves behind. We opened the cage to start cleaning up the mess, upsetting Starboard (who is a particularly intense mom), and in her protective flurry she trompled the weak chick.

We successfully extracted the baby, which seemed a little chilled, and not in control of its muscles. I gave it to a friend to hold and warm while I cleaned out the nest and put in some fresh hay and starter crumbles.

And when my friend opened his hands so we could examine the rescued chick, it popped off his palm like a jumping bean and plopped four feet to the ground. Thankfully, gravity is merciful on the little creatures, and it seemed no worse off than before.

So we brought the poor wee mite inside, put it on a heating pad, left it to warm up. So tiny, so frail, it slept like a dead thing for nearly 24 hours. Since we lumber all of Starboard’s children with the nautical names, and because life-drop kicked this one into existence, we named it Punt. During that first day I was equally sure each time I checked that Punt would die any second, and that Punt would be fine. Optimistically, because it would be annoying to expend all this rescue effort for a rooster, we decided Punt is a pullet. Her troubles seemed neurological, so we hoped she would get better as she grew up. Gradually, she found her feet--not without some drama, like a near-death tumble into her water bowl--and I succumbed to the charm of her exceptional effort to live, and the scary, rigor mortis abandon of her sleep. After 36 hours, to my great relief, she started showing interest in food and water. After 48, she was able to motivate around her box, although at first her walk was more of a semi-controlled tumble.

She’s nearly a week old today, and we’re thinking we might be able to re-introduce her to her family tonight or tomorrow. She interested in everything, and moving around pretty well, though she remains a bit unsteady on her pins.

Little Punt’s first week has been especially poignant to me, coinciding as it has with the week I underwent laproscopic abdominal surgery. Watching her struggle and try, rest and explore, she seems to exude a perfect trust in her world, and her process. We’re getting better together.