the christening

I come to you, dear reader(s?), with a question: What shall I call my last nameless peep?

There is Rosie, the production red hen who delights in flying out of the box. There is Edna, the darkest and smallest peep, an Americana, who barely has tail feathers but is somehow always the last one caught. There is Lolita, the brown-tinged Silver Laced Wyandotte, who squawks loudly when I try to pick her up. And there is Lola, a California white named for the Kinks song, because she “walks like a woman but talks like a man, oh my Lola.” That’s not entirely accurate. Lola walks like a rooster, roosts like a rooster (sometimes on my shoulder), but peeps just like the others. She has a prominent comb, though, and was the first to develop tail feathers, which is why my neighbor Janine suspects she may not be a hen after all. Oh my Lola.

Three of my very photogenic peeps, including Miss Ella, died in a freak accident (picnic, dog). They’re now buried in my garden, planted neatly under a lilac bush and some irises.

But this leaves one Silver Laced Wyandotte. She is a pretty bird, white-chested, dark-winged, too shy to pose for a photo this morning. She has no quirks of character that come to mind, and I cannot think of what to call her.

Thank you in advance for your assistance.