After installing Doris in her isolation chamber, I contemplated taking a nap. But as it was only 11 AM and I had some things that needed doing, I opted for a cup of strong coffee and a browse of email. Lo and behold, there was an email from McMurray Hatchery telling me that my order of chicks had shipped on Friday! Whee! But when I checked to see where they were, it appeared that they were stuck in St. Paul.
That's not good.
Knowing that waiting two days would likely be too stressful for those chicklets, I tried calling the St. Paul center to see about picking them up there. I'm not sure who I spoke to on the phone, but he was one incredibly rude individual. After making me repeat my story three times (and I know he understood what I was asking the first time), he grunted, chomped his gum a few more smacks in my ear, and said, "No. You can't get them. So they might die. Whatever." And hung up on me.
Hung. Up. On. Me.
So I resigned myself to not being able to do anything, and likely having to deal with dead chicks on Monday morning. There was still stuff that needed done, so I took Max and Phoebe for a ride up to Rice Lake to hit the Co-Op for some fresh fruit and veg to supplement our canned and frozen supplies at home. Wouldn't you know it, we got over halfway there when the phone rang and it was the Postal Dispatch Center in Eau Claire--apparently, my chicks had in fact been sent there this morning from St. Paul, and could I please come get them?
Sure thing. After my errands. In a town one hour north of where my chicks are patiently peeping and waiting for me.
A trip like that requires sustenance, so the dogs and I cruised into Culver's and got ourselves some custard for the drive. Once arriving at the facility in Eau Claire, you get to drive into the trucks only entrance (I always feel so wicked!), park in Area #5, and find this door:
There's this old buzzer next to it, that when you press it, makes what sounds like a vintage fire alarm bell go off somewhere inside the cavernous building. You can hear all kinds of whirring and clanking and zooming of what I think must be forklifts zipping around the joint, all going about their business behind that mysterious puke-pink door. Eventually, somebody wearing earplugs and a safety vest comes and lets you in. They always know what I am there for, as I don't think they get many random visitors coming by. No dawdling allowed, you have to move at a fast trot to keep up with the safety guy as he heads off into the racks and stacks of mail tubs. The chicks are kept in a relatively draft-free corner of the warehouse, and after much scanning and poking of buttons on a handheld computer thingy, I was handed the largest of the three boxes waiting for pick up, escorted back across the working floor with no dilly-dallying, pushed out the door into the daylight world, and told to have a nice day.
Here's what went into the front seat next to me:
And check out who was just longing to visit them:
|"But...I just wanna lick them. Really."|
Another hour long drive home (with a stop to fill up on gas because LuLa handled a lot of mileage), and 101 teeny beak dips in the water dish later, all the chicklets are safely installed in their temporary-until-it-warms-up-brooder in the bathroom. I think they are pretty happy to be out of the box and into their safe little home.