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| Saving Chirpy |  |
Watching the lunar eclipse last night on the winter solstice reminded me of another miracle I had witnessed: the saving of Chirpy. Long ago and far away in the land of my birth, San Diego (where dreams of Super Bowls and World Series go to die), my siblings and I lived with my parents and a few pets. Every pet was acquired over the strident objections of Mom. Both Mom and Dad were country kids and if an animal couldn’t be used for eating, it was basically a waste. Dad was a little more lenient but Mom protested quite loudly because animals, as a rule, were not too tidy in the “goings” which attracted flies. Flies were The Enemy in our household. Should one pass the moat of defenses and enter the premises, an attack was launched. All meals, conversations and other activities ceased. If one happened to be “doing the Lord’s business” in the “facilities,” one was whipped off the throne, handed a swatter and assigned an area from which to do battle. There was no Catch and Release. This was Seek and Destroy. This…was War. Nothing else mattered until the fly was cornered and swatted after which my mom scolded the swatter for making a mess with the swattee. Then, and only then, could life resume. This made quite an impression on any visitors and truly, it is a wonder, Beloved Spouse came back for a second date. I am beyond grateful. My dad wanted us to experience the wonder of fresh eggs and tried to give us Easter chicks several years in a row. However, our dog would somehow get to them and kill them. Finally, he brought home a half-grown Rhode Island Red hoping she would be big enough to defend herself. “Now don’t get too attached to it and name it,” he warned which we promptly ignored and christened her “Chirpy.” I know. Real original. We were city kids. Be glad we didn’t name the cat “kitty” and the dog “dog.” Chirpy had a hutch for at night but if the day was nice, which it often was in San Diego, she was allowed to roam the backyard. The dog investigated, got her nose pecked with great enthusiasm, and eventually got the message. You don’t mess with Chirpy. But we almost lost Chirpy. She started to lose weight and it was apparent she was dying. What had happened? My parents had bought a different kind of food which she really liked. She ate a lot of it and then ate a rather large grasshopper. That combination was too much and she split her craw. The craw is a sort of storage tank some birds have and her craw had busted open so that every time she ate a bite of food, it just popped right out. She was starving to death. My siblings and I were inconsolable. We begged our dad, “Save Chirpy, Dad! Save Chirpy!” My dad thought on it for a while. This was before Google or anything like it but without any help but God’s, he came up with a plan. He caught Chirpy, sat down, and placed her on her back in his lap. He held his hand over her face until she relaxed and she started breathing evenly and slowly. With Chirpy hypnotized, he asked my mom to bring him a small cloth for her face and a sewing needle and thread. My mom was irritated beyond belief. The very idea of sacrificing a perfectly good sewing needle for a chicken? Because, of course, there weren’t enough cleansers in the world to sterilize a sewing needle after it had come into contact with live chicken skin and she would have to throw it out. And thread? What color? Meanwhile, us kids were on our knees and wailing. Lips aquiver, we begged the Lord Jesus to please save Chirpy while our mom fretted and our dog sniffed hoping now she would finally get the upper paw, as it were, on her nemesis. It was quite the scene. Eventually, our mom broke down and handed over a perfectly good sewing needle (and thread) for the sake of Chirpy. My mom held anger in her heart over a lot of things but deep down I don’t think she ever quite got over having to give up one of her good sewing needles (and thread) to save a messy bird that attracted flies. Dad sewed up Chirpy’s craw and set her down. She trotted off, quite indignant about the whole process, because, you know, chickens can be spiteful that way. She healed and after a few days she pulled out her own stitches and she lived a normal chicken life. But thus was born the legend of my dad. Not just a Man. Not just a Myth. My dad is…The Chicken Whisperer. Can I hear an Amen?!
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