Yesterday I was musing about ducklings and cygnets; today it is the turn of baby quail.
A dear friend of mine has an aviary which is home to some quail, amongst other birds. The quail never bother flying. Instead they reserve their energies for running around on the ground and procreating. Not to put too fine a point on it, they are at it like rabbits.
From this, come many eggs. The fathers take a leaf out of my book and leave the parenting entirely to the mothers. Unfortunately for the would-be chicks, the mothers take a similar stance and don’t bother sitting on the eggs.
Three weeks ago, the lot of the foundling eggs improved markedly, when my friend inherited an incubator. This machine acts as mum, warming and turning the eggs. And it worked: A few days ago 20 or more little chicks emerged.
The chicks are living in a nursery and for the most part thriving. They look cute. And sometimes they behave in a cute way, cuddling up next to each other. But at other times they are anything but friendly. They give each other an occasional peck, perhaps to establish a pecking order, although I have to say, it looks like sheer belligerence. Maybe they are deeply angry with existence for being brought into the world by a machine instead of a warm, fluffy, breathing, living mother.
Whatever the reason for the miniature hen pecking, it reaches its most horrific form in relation to the enfeebled chicks. A few of the little ones don’t look as vital as the rest, lying sprawled out as the others run around, often right over them as if they are doormats. These weaklings are picked on, and pecked at, mercilessly, by their siblings. Most of the unfortunate ones have now died, leaving 15 chicks of which two are still being harassed for their imperfections.
Today the bullying went a step further, or rather, several steps back: One of the weaklings, affectionately known as Splat, is perfectly healthy except that his legs stick out horizontally, permanently in the splits, rather than holding him aloft. Splat gets around with a sort of swimming motion. It is a struggle but eventually he gets where he wants to go. This afternoon, watching Splat wriggle and worm his way over to some food, I was appalled to see one of his siblings stride over, grab him by taking one of his outstretched feet in the beak, and run several paces backwards, dragging the hapless Splat away from the food.
It would seem that we humans are not the only ones in need of primal therapy and family constellations!
