Sole Survivor
I have become the mommy to the single baby chicken (now six days old) that survived the delayed shipment of chicks that got to me too late. Five were still alive when I got the package, but of those, only this one has survived to thrive.
But it's lonely, and when I approach the enclosure ( a 5 sq ft corner of the bathroom, with it's toasty radiant tile floor), rather than flee, it jumps on my hand when I put it down to it's level and is very content to hang out on my left shoulder, peeping in my ear and rustling around in my beard.
The very essence of tiny dependent being.
No, I haven't given it a name. She hasn't yet told me her name.
So, this may well put me into the realm of true eccentricity, but it seems quite simple to me: I have no choice but to nurture this tiny fluff of life that will, incidentally, produce 800-1000 eggs in it's lifetime, if it survives. This is not a totally impractical venture.
Hasn't got a lot to do with electing Democrats, and little enough to do with fixing broken houses, but it is what's happening in my home right now.
We are once again open to advise about home repair issues and gossip about our own projects and foibles.