I got an anguished e-mail from Sandy in Florida yesterday testily urging me to shoot Fran or take her to a vet, as she was sick of hearing about Fran and wanted me to write about something else. “This is just stupid and ridiculous,” she said. You know how responsive I am to people who tell me what to write on my blog but I tried to be gentle.

I offered her a refund and gently encouraged her to look elsewhere, maybe the political coverage. Fran is the big news on the farm.  I love this chicken train and will ride it to the end of the line, within reason. My site traffic is through the roof, I love taking chicken photos, the donkeys are my new heroes guarding the hens, and Maria is into bringing this poor creature back to life. All that is lacking, alas, are royalties. If you are me, it doesn’t get much better than this (although I do promise I will return to the ghost story shortly when the feathers settle.) I know a good story when I see one, even though I am sometimes slow to get it.

I don’t generally ask advice or like it, but the chicken advice I am getting from all over the country and the world is pretty fascinating stuff, and I admit to reading as much of it as I can. I have about 500 home remedies ranging from salt water to carrot juice to Native-American healing chants and Irish tea mixed with corn meal. It is amazing how many hard-headed farmers have (confidentially) e-mailed me with stories of chickens pulled from the jaws of foxes, raccoons, weasels, ferrets, dogs and nursed back to health with ointments, lotions, natural and herbal cures, stitches,crutches, baling wire, spit and soup. And it is even more amazing how many chicken dramas are running out there, and how many people are up to their necks in them. I understand, I do. I didn’t a week ago, but I do now. Sorry, Sandy, go walk your dog.I’m afraid I’m enmeshed in this secret but large tribe of chicken do-gooders.

This animal thing is amazing. It does deeper than one can ever imagine. If you had told me a month ago that I would be spending this time and energy on a chicken, I would have just chuckled. Now I spent a half an hour fussing over what lens to take out into the barn. There is a serious and poignant part to all of this, which I have experienced before and am feeling now. There is something magical about saving the life of a living thing, if  you can do it. It is an affirmation of life itself, a bow to humanity, connection in a time of fragmentation, an affirmation. We can’t do much, but maybe we can do this, and that makes it a sweet little miracle.