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.
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