It's 4:10 in the morning and I'm writing this in the dark on my couch, having been woken up an hour ago by the most horrible screams from my backyard. I knew what was happening, but it took me forever to fumble my glasses on my face and find my bathrobe and a bike light to act as a flashlight. I ran out back and saw the giant raccoon in the coop, growling and hissing at me, as my birds tumbled over each other in fright against the door. I opened it up and scooped them out, chasing them to the side of the house, and waited for the raccoon to slide its way out of the narrow gap it had dug under the bottom of the coop. It ran to the tree alongside the neighbor's garage and climbed up to the roof, then turned around at the top and stared at me as though challenging me in the dark.
I heard so much silence. I couldn't see anything. I opened the back door of the henhouse, expecting to see carnage, but there was nothing. Then I looked down at the ground underneath and there it was.
Ryland was still awake, and I got him to stand guard over the shaken, unhappy birds while I went in and put on some barn clothes. I opened up the garage and picked the pitchfork. I apologized over and over to her as I used the fork to drag what was left of her into a plastic bag. I tied up the handles and as I picked the bag up, I realized that this was the last time I'd hold her, on the way to the trash, and I felt such a sense of having let her down. I knew this could happen, that something could dig under the sides, and I never took care of it, I just let it go and let it go and now one of my chickens got killed and eaten.
It took a while to herd the three hens back into their coop. They didn't want to go. I lifted each one into the house and slid the metal door shut after them. The raccoon watched everything from the tree branches above.
I loved Hedy. She had a bright, lively personality and an entertaining demeanor. But as a year younger than the other hens, she was never fully accepted into their flock, and when her brother Boomer was taken away last year, she had to learn to adjust on her own. She was often picked on, but she always ran out first for food and treats and didn't let the bigger birds bother her. I loved her goofy cheeks, her green eggs, her god-awful "scraaaaaw" sound she made all day long. I feel as though my negligence let her down.
I'm sorry, little bird. I hope you enjoyed your time in my backyard. I enjoyed it very much.
1 comments:
I'm so sorry about Hedy. I had something similar happen when I was a kid, and I felt terribly guilty for a long time, like I'd failed in my duty to protect the hens. But eventually I realized that it comes with the territory when one keeps chickens; predators are everywhere. The @#$%^&* raccoons were terribly clever and constantly tested our defenses, so there was a good chance they were going to get in before we really knew what we were doing. The best thing I could do for our poor dead hens was to make sure that their "sisters" were safe, and I spent a lot of time plugging gaps, putting up metal skirting, putting the dogs out at night, etc. and after a while I felt better. Best of luck and take care.
Post a Comment