Happy Feet, RIP

My son experienced heartache for the first time yesterday.

The quail chick, which he had named Happy Feet because of the little bird's tendency to jump and dance, grew weak in the evening and stopped breathing.

After three weeks of turning the eggs and maintaining a consistent temperature in the small incubator, my son's efforts were rewarded earlier this week with a cute little fluffball that chirped happily whenever we came around.

He liked to be held, to sit in our hands and peck at seed mash, then nuzzle his beak against our fingers. The bird was doing what it was supposed to do. Drinking water, eating seed, pooping, sleeping, chirping.

My son was so proud of himself, and in just a few days had grown quite fond of Happy Feet. We talked about what the future would hold. Would we turn him loose in our backyard? Or build an enclosure? Or take him to grandma's farm where he might find other quail to be friends with?

But it was not to be. The little guy wasn't destined to be long in this world. Just five days old and he was gone.

I've never seen my son so sad. Like I said, he was quite proud of himself. And he had such hopes and plans for his new pet. We all forgot that these birds are fragile, and many of them do not survive into adulthood even in the wild with a mother quail looking after them.

We'll have a quiet ceremony this evening and bury Happy Feet in a place of remembrance in the backyard. My son picked a spot near the Japanese Maple that he planted last year.

RIP, Happy Feet. You gave us a little love, and taught a valuable life lesson too.