This afternoon we moved the chicks to larger quarters, which involved putting them outside in the grass while we swept up the old litter and put down new newspapers and litter in the garage, and prepared their new cage (ten points to the first person to name the previous use of this new cage, respond in the comments section).
They enjoyed being in the grass, started scratching around and pecking at things that might be bugs. I don't think they found any real bugs though. But they were ready.
While Charlotte was carrying each chick back into the garage when we moved the cage in there, I heard, "Uh, Mom, come quick!" Well, the usual call to get me to come see something invariably has some urgent exhortation to it, but after about the 10th time by 8am, I start to prioritize these calls. This come-quick-call had a genuinely urgent tone, and when I rounded the corner into the garage this is what I saw:
Not a calamity, to be sure, but something that needed my assistance. Can you pick out the bird in the garage mess?
This incident gave other family members the idea to try the same thing:
Arrg, call him Captain John and his trusty chicken. Creative thinking, indeed.