Week Nine Poem & Prose - Country Justice

Cunning little fox
Licking lips for my chickens
Thinks he’s bested me

Not so fast, li’l Fox
I’m uniquely determined
You can’t have these birds

These hens are my friends
And summer entertainment
Not Fox’s supper

If you’re going to live in the wilderness, you may as well get it in your head right away to expect the unexpected.  There are no such things as planned emergencies, and usually, I find myself responding to these sudden occurrences underdressed and with whatever equipment is close at hand. It makes for some interesting stories since life in the woods is never dull.

Surrounded by loblolly pine and hardwood forest, our little piece of nature is replete with wildlife. We enjoy the local rabbits, deer, skunks, opossums, snakes, bobcats, foxes, hawks, owls, and bears; all of which can sometimes be a menace to our domestic critters which consists of chickens, rabbits, dogs and cats.

Our role in the Great Circle of Life is to keep the wild animals from eating their domesticated brethren.

One evening in early March, I stepped out into the spring night to get a bag of dog food from my vehicle.  I went out in my comfy clothes since I had all but retired for the evening, the weather warm enough that I could stand there in yoga pants and a t-shirt to look at the stars and appreciate the fact that we had survived the winter.  Suddenly a loud squawk from the chicken coop broke my reverie.  I narrowed my eyes in suspicion as I searched vainly in the dark to see what was the matter. I ran and grabbed my flashlight from the house and swung the yellow beam of light back and forth across the yard and all around the chicken coop.

The chickens should be sleeping; all of them inside the coop on the roosts with their little heads tucked under their wings.  When I got to the coop-yard there were four hens stacked on top of each other in a corner. They were terrified and making some of the most pitiful chicken noises I've ever heard.  I lifted the latch and stepped into the yard. There were feathers everywhere.  Having lived through several Great Chicken Massacrees, as we came to call them, seeing feathers strewn across the ground is never a good sign.  A gray shadow ran past me cutting through the flashlight beam. I could tell at once it was a fox.  Completely undaunted by my presence he scurried past my leg and deftly darted behind me to snag a chicken by the foot.

The hen was flapping her wings and squawking as the fox tried to pull her through the hole he had dug under the fence.  I noticed that it was my favorite chicken, a Buff Orpington named Big Mama.  I wasn’t about to let that mangy varmint run off with Big Mama, so I yelled at the fox “Oh no, you did not!” and I hauled off and kicked that fox in the head.  The fox let go of Big Mama as he flew in the air and hit the roof of the chicken yard. He fell to the ground and scampered out the way he had sneaked in.

I couldn’t believe it! I hadn't ever seen a fox do that.

The chickens were a mess. They reeled around like drunken sailors, squawking all trying to tell their tragic tale at once.  I pet each one, examining them for damage and tried to soothe them a bit. I knew they wouldn’t be laying eggs for a while. Not that I could blame them, they had lived through chicken Armageddon.

I figured I didn’t have a lot of time before a fox that bold would be back to make another run at a chicken dinner.  I examined the hole he had dug under the fence. I had to give kudos to Mr. Fox for his crafty breaking and entering skills.  He had pushed aside the fence skirting that rings the enclosure and had taken advantage of the dust bath hole the chicken made.  We had some blocks for a retaining wall sitting in a pile, and I hauled some of them over to plug up the hole on each side of the fence. The whole time I worked the chickens staggered around and tried to huddle up under my feet. Chickens don’t do well under pressure.

Since there were only four hens in the yard, I knew I had to look for the other two which I figured were probably inside the coop.  I opened the coop door and flicked on the light illuminating the coop and the yard.  There was one very relieved Auracana, who had found a safe spot on the top most nesting box. She peered down at me but didn’t look like she wanted to come down anytime soon, and as I scanned the coop, I saw why.  The fox had partially killed one of the girls.  She lay in the straw amidst the debris from the fight, mortally wounded and clearly suffering.

I closed the coop and strode to the house in search of masculine assistance. I wanted Thor, my son, to put the chicken out of her misery with his shotgun.  He was watching TV in his skivvies - a white tank undershirt and a pair of shorts - and talking on the phone.  Always willing to help me out in these situations, he said goodbye to his girlfriend, grabbed his gun and pulled on his boots.  As we headed out to the coop, I told him all about the fox and how I kicked it in the head and had blocked the hole. He, too, couldn’t believe a fox would be that bold.

When we got to the coop, the mangled chicken was still alive and moaning softly.  I gently moved her to where Thor could help her on her way, said a small prayer for her and stepped back. I scrunched my eyes shut and jumped when he shot. I looked up, and the chicken was flapping and jumping around. I couldn't take it! I beat on Thor’s shoulder and yelling “Is that the best you can do? From ten feet? After all that shooting practice? Can't you do any better than that? She’s still alive!”
Somehow he manages to say between pummeling him and him laughing at me, “Mom, take it easy. It doesn’t have a head! Haven’t you ever heard of running around like a chicken with its head cut off?”

I wrung my hands.  I knew he was right, but it was just so traumatic. I was hoping to see her peacefully and instantaneously dead, and instead she was flapping around headless in a very disconcerting way. “I’m sorry." Gah! Apparently, sometimes moms are not that great under pressure, either.

Eventually, the pile of feathers lay still, and I let out the breath I'd been holding.

We turned our attention to the remaining chickens, literally soothing ruffled feathers and getting them calmed down. We were standing near the chicken coop door when Thor jumped like he’d been electrocuted.  “Holy shit!” he yelled.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“The frigging fox just bit me! He was under the coop and grabbed my boot with his paws and bit me!”

“What!?“ I was aghast. We stepped back and shone the light under the coop and, sure enough, Mr. Fox was looking right back at us, taunting.  Thor yelled at him “Oh no, you did not!” and fired his gun at the fox under the coop.  This time, he missed.

I thought for sure the fox would have left having been deprived of his dinner, kicked in the head and now shot at, but no. He sat right there and looked at us from under the coop as if to say “I’m leaving here with a chicken or dead and I don’t really care which.”
Thor and I obviously had our opinion about the matter.

“Do you have any more shells?” I asked.

“I just have slugs.”

A twenty gauge slug is meant for killing deer, but it’s what we had, and I wasn’t about to go back to the house and to look for other ammo when the fox could get away.

We positioned ourselves behind an oak tree with a good line of sight under the coop where we could see the fox. Thor lay along the ground like a sniper on one side of the tree, and I shone the flashlight on the other side and acted as a spotter. “Just a little lower,” I whispered as he adjusted the muzzle of the gun.

The fox never knew what hit him.  Thor is a good shot. I mean he did shoot the head off the chicken, after all, and the fox is a much larger target and obligingly lay perfectly still.  He never had a chance.
We were congratulating ourselves standing there in our pajamas and yoga pants, me with a shovel and Thor with his gun, planning carcass disposal, chickens still dazedly milling about the feather-strewn yard when George’s truck turned into the driveway.

We must have been quite a sight because his truck slowed down and crept into a halt.  He stepped out of the truck and said not a little warily “What’s going on here?”  The look on his face was priceless.
I leaned on the shovel and smiled “Just another Thursday night, baby. We've got it under control.”

Li’l Fox will not win
Against gun-toting farmer
He feeds vultures now

Li’l Fox I am sad
At your untimely passing
You’re a worthy foe

Hens pecking cracked corn
Night of terror forgotten
We have done our job