Zombies, Hawks, Minks and Other Chicken Molesters
Zombies, Hawks, Minks and Other Chicken Molesters
There are many arts that do not receive their deserved credit. Some of the finer more delicate things in life are looked down on by those who are ignorant and inexperienced with the intricate and careful balance of, oh let's say the art of keeping a flock of chickens alive. Forget happy, healthy and clean, just alive is a difficult goal that requires vigilance and finesse. Upon moving out to the county I discovered how glorified my idea of nature was, and I was disillusioned as the cold, harsh truth of reality set in. Nature is mean. Nature is messy. Nature is infested with all sorts of irritating pests. The bugs alone, would make a less stubborn person pack up and move back to the city.
Raising chickens is an enlightening and enriching experience, but it is also horrifying. The excrement I was prepared for. The disposal of dead bodies is something I learned to deal with. And by "deal with," I mean deny the existence of until my brave husband arrives prepared to handle. What I really struggle with are the predators. We have lost 9 chickens to hawks, 7 to a mink (we think), more than 20 to a disease, a handful to frostbite, several to birth defects, and a few sad little babies that couldn't bust their way out of their eggs.
We have done everything we can to secure our coop and run from predators, but the chickens are escape artists. They are incredibly stupid birds when it comes to everything except getting food. And there is a great green world out there crawling with delicious plants and insects. I love letting my chickens free range, because they rid my garden of pesky little bugs, and save me a bundle in the cost of chicken feed. But because of the hawks, I only let the chickens out on days I am prepared to be outside all day or stand guard at the window.
Many of my chickens have grown wise, and when they see a shadow sweep across the lawn, they run and hide under the deck. Our oldest and wisest birds will even squawk out a loud, rhythmic warning to all the other birds until the coast is clear. This sound is my signal to run out of the house waving my arms in the air, yelling, to scare off any hawks. I am so glad I have no near neighbors, as this happens several times in a day. One day, standing by the window watching a few birds that had managed to escape the run, I was talking on the phone with my mother, and out of the corner of my eye saw a hawk diving toward the ground. I ran out of the house screaming at the top of my lungs, "NOOOOO!!! Get away from her!!!" and hung up the phone. My poor mother. I did successfully scare the hawk away before it could grab one of my hens.
Nine other birds of mine were not so lucky. Nine! I hate hawks. And the infernal beasts are protected by the federal government. So there is not much you can do when your farm becomes the favored lunch spot. The most upsetting hawk attack was when our 5 year old son ran into the house shouting that there was a hawk in the garden. Our brave boy then grabbed a big stick and ran back out thinking he would beat the hawk off our chicken, and he did scare the hawk away. What we found was one of our Polish crested hens, Wanda, half eaten, and still breathing. Alex had to shoot her, and it was an upsetting day for all of us. It is a very violating feeling when beasts break in and eat the animals you work hard to care for. I'm sure this sounds ridiculous to most of my readers (but let's face it, it is the ridiculous that keeps you coming back to these stories), but I love my chickens. And I am really okay with being "The Crazy Chicken Lady." Better that than Crazy Cat Lady, or worse, Crazy Snake Lady.
The worst experience was just this past week. One morning Alex's brother was here and told us he thought he had seen a mink. I innocently though, Oh, how cute! Well it turns out these minks are crafty little creatures that like to rip the heads off animals and suck their blood. Seriously, I could not make this stuff up. And this horrid little animal squeezed through a crack under the big chicken coop door, climbed up the wire fencing around the inner wall ripped a hole in the door screening, and attacked our chickens. It decapitated 7 of our chickens (all expensive, designer breeds, apparently minks have discriminating taste), and ripped the face off of our favorite pet chicken, Gwen. If you have been to my house, you might remember Gwen as the friendly bird that runs to greet you and be held. Gwen is separated now and her wounds are being treated. It has been 3 days, and we have hope that she will make a good recovery. Our poor hens are now traumatized and "sleep" up in the rafters, with one eye open, cramming their fluffy hindquarters onto a tiny ledge. Our coop has been reinforced and barricaded, and a few live traps set. And I am hoping to add a fashionable brown fur to some article of clothing very soon.
Finally, my zombie story. One afternoon, after putting all 3 children down for naps, I collapsed on my sofa and started to doze. I was woken by a sound I had never heard. It was loud, it was perilous, and it was chickenish. I ran out the door, rounded the corner of the garden, came into view of the chicken run and saw a predatorial animal that will hereafter only be referred to as "zombie" stuck under the fence to the run. Facing off with the zombie was my little teapot sized rooster, Aggie, and it was from him that the screams came. Barely taking all this in, I turned and ran back into the house. I erupted through the front door and ran to the gun cabinet, waking my oldest child. I selected my weapon of choice, my grandfather's old double-barreled side-by-side 20 gauge shotgun, grabbed a couple shells out of the safe and ran back out. I loaded the barrels as I ran, and when I rounded the corner of the garden this time, I snapped the barrel up, brought the stock of the gun to my shoulder, pushed the safety forward and took aim just as the zombie was wiggling free of the fence into the chicken run. At this point my rooster was on top of the zombie attacking with all his might. I hated to shoot my bird, but if I didn't, he was dead for sure. Bang! Aggie flew off and scuttled into the coop where the hens were hiding. The zombie was down. I ran into the coop to see if Aggie was okay. He was hiding in the corner looking stunned, but there was no sign of blood. I came back out and examined the zombie. At first it looked as though its fur was blowing in the wind, but then I saw that the movement was too rhythmic.
Bang! I shot again. There was a puff of fur and the zombie slid a couple feet from the shock. I waited. It was still breathing! I ran into the house and got two more shells, heavier buckshot this time. I came out, stood closer, about 10 feet away, and hit it with both shells. It was still breathing. Shaking and horrified, I ran in the house and got two more shells. I came back and ventured even closer, 5 feet away. I shot again. And, no joke, this zombie lifted it's head up and looked me straight in the eyes...
"Why won't you die?!" I screamed at it. One final shot and it was finally still. I went in the house crying, and did not let the kids go out the rest of the day. When Alex got home, I urged him to take a gun and a stick when he went to dispose of the body and make sure it was really dead. He chuckled at my fear of the "zombie." But he also joked that I had never been more attractive.
There are many arts that do not receive their deserved credit. Some of the finer more delicate things in life are looked down on by those who are ignorant and inexperienced with the intricate and careful balance of, oh let's say the art of keeping a flock of chickens alive. Forget happy, healthy and clean, just alive is a difficult goal that requires vigilance and finesse. Upon moving out to the county I discovered how glorified my idea of nature was, and I was disillusioned as the cold, harsh truth of reality set in. Nature is mean. Nature is messy. Nature is infested with all sorts of irritating pests. The bugs alone, would make a less stubborn person pack up and move back to the city.
Raising chickens is an enlightening and enriching experience, but it is also horrifying. The excrement I was prepared for. The disposal of dead bodies is something I learned to deal with. And by "deal with," I mean deny the existence of until my brave husband arrives prepared to handle. What I really struggle with are the predators. We have lost 9 chickens to hawks, 7 to a mink (we think), more than 20 to a disease, a handful to frostbite, several to birth defects, and a few sad little babies that couldn't bust their way out of their eggs.
We have done everything we can to secure our coop and run from predators, but the chickens are escape artists. They are incredibly stupid birds when it comes to everything except getting food. And there is a great green world out there crawling with delicious plants and insects. I love letting my chickens free range, because they rid my garden of pesky little bugs, and save me a bundle in the cost of chicken feed. But because of the hawks, I only let the chickens out on days I am prepared to be outside all day or stand guard at the window.
Many of my chickens have grown wise, and when they see a shadow sweep across the lawn, they run and hide under the deck. Our oldest and wisest birds will even squawk out a loud, rhythmic warning to all the other birds until the coast is clear. This sound is my signal to run out of the house waving my arms in the air, yelling, to scare off any hawks. I am so glad I have no near neighbors, as this happens several times in a day. One day, standing by the window watching a few birds that had managed to escape the run, I was talking on the phone with my mother, and out of the corner of my eye saw a hawk diving toward the ground. I ran out of the house screaming at the top of my lungs, "NOOOOO!!! Get away from her!!!" and hung up the phone. My poor mother. I did successfully scare the hawk away before it could grab one of my hens.
Nine other birds of mine were not so lucky. Nine! I hate hawks. And the infernal beasts are protected by the federal government. So there is not much you can do when your farm becomes the favored lunch spot. The most upsetting hawk attack was when our 5 year old son ran into the house shouting that there was a hawk in the garden. Our brave boy then grabbed a big stick and ran back out thinking he would beat the hawk off our chicken, and he did scare the hawk away. What we found was one of our Polish crested hens, Wanda, half eaten, and still breathing. Alex had to shoot her, and it was an upsetting day for all of us. It is a very violating feeling when beasts break in and eat the animals you work hard to care for. I'm sure this sounds ridiculous to most of my readers (but let's face it, it is the ridiculous that keeps you coming back to these stories), but I love my chickens. And I am really okay with being "The Crazy Chicken Lady." Better that than Crazy Cat Lady, or worse, Crazy Snake Lady.
The worst experience was just this past week. One morning Alex's brother was here and told us he thought he had seen a mink. I innocently though, Oh, how cute! Well it turns out these minks are crafty little creatures that like to rip the heads off animals and suck their blood. Seriously, I could not make this stuff up. And this horrid little animal squeezed through a crack under the big chicken coop door, climbed up the wire fencing around the inner wall ripped a hole in the door screening, and attacked our chickens. It decapitated 7 of our chickens (all expensive, designer breeds, apparently minks have discriminating taste), and ripped the face off of our favorite pet chicken, Gwen. If you have been to my house, you might remember Gwen as the friendly bird that runs to greet you and be held. Gwen is separated now and her wounds are being treated. It has been 3 days, and we have hope that she will make a good recovery. Our poor hens are now traumatized and "sleep" up in the rafters, with one eye open, cramming their fluffy hindquarters onto a tiny ledge. Our coop has been reinforced and barricaded, and a few live traps set. And I am hoping to add a fashionable brown fur to some article of clothing very soon.
Finally, my zombie story. One afternoon, after putting all 3 children down for naps, I collapsed on my sofa and started to doze. I was woken by a sound I had never heard. It was loud, it was perilous, and it was chickenish. I ran out the door, rounded the corner of the garden, came into view of the chicken run and saw a predatorial animal that will hereafter only be referred to as "zombie" stuck under the fence to the run. Facing off with the zombie was my little teapot sized rooster, Aggie, and it was from him that the screams came. Barely taking all this in, I turned and ran back into the house. I erupted through the front door and ran to the gun cabinet, waking my oldest child. I selected my weapon of choice, my grandfather's old double-barreled side-by-side 20 gauge shotgun, grabbed a couple shells out of the safe and ran back out. I loaded the barrels as I ran, and when I rounded the corner of the garden this time, I snapped the barrel up, brought the stock of the gun to my shoulder, pushed the safety forward and took aim just as the zombie was wiggling free of the fence into the chicken run. At this point my rooster was on top of the zombie attacking with all his might. I hated to shoot my bird, but if I didn't, he was dead for sure. Bang! Aggie flew off and scuttled into the coop where the hens were hiding. The zombie was down. I ran into the coop to see if Aggie was okay. He was hiding in the corner looking stunned, but there was no sign of blood. I came back out and examined the zombie. At first it looked as though its fur was blowing in the wind, but then I saw that the movement was too rhythmic.
Bang! I shot again. There was a puff of fur and the zombie slid a couple feet from the shock. I waited. It was still breathing! I ran into the house and got two more shells, heavier buckshot this time. I came out, stood closer, about 10 feet away, and hit it with both shells. It was still breathing. Shaking and horrified, I ran in the house and got two more shells. I came back and ventured even closer, 5 feet away. I shot again. And, no joke, this zombie lifted it's head up and looked me straight in the eyes...
"Why won't you die?!" I screamed at it. One final shot and it was finally still. I went in the house crying, and did not let the kids go out the rest of the day. When Alex got home, I urged him to take a gun and a stick when he went to dispose of the body and make sure it was really dead. He chuckled at my fear of the "zombie." But he also joked that I had never been more attractive.