I think our chickens hate us. We are scary monsters who swoop in on them and carry them away from their friends. To the mind of any sensible chicken, Robb and I are Meanies.
It has been fascinating to see them develop. We've had them for a week, and I think they're ten days old. (Hatched on a Monday, shipped on Tuesday, delivered on Wednesday.) When they first arrived, only the tiniest one had any hint of adult wing feathers. The others were just balls of fluff. Gradually, their wings are growing in. Three of our chicks went directly from fuzz to feather, but the brunette had some sort of sheath surrounding her newly sprouted wing feathers. You can see this on the right side of the photograph.
We haven't named the chickens, but we've given them unofficial nicknames. This one is the Bantam Menace. She's five days old in this photo. I could not photograph her today, because she was convinced I was going to kill her. She's starting to sprout a tiny feathery tail. Her larger blonde sister is still just a fluff-butt.
The Penguin is ten days old. She's growing lovely wing feathers.
Here's a sense of the size of our chicks. This little brunette looks like a songbird.
I've been trying to find a way to hang out with our chickens in a non-scary manner. Our garage, where we're raising them, is too ramshackle and full of random crap to let them free-range in. Robb and I agree that if we let them wander around on the garage floor, they'd disappear into holes that we'd never get them out of. I guess we'll have to wait until they develop an interest in treats, and then bribe them with food.