I step out on the porch, pushing the other dogs back. I don’t want them chasing coyotes onto their own turf again. I’m hoping my presence will be enough to drive them away, but on the porch, holding my trusty hoe, I falter.

The coyotes are still there. Copper is beside himself with a fury I’ve never heard from him before, and I can hear their rustling. They can’t get into the hen house and soon they’ll figure that out, but I don’t want to leave our little beagle at their mercy, either. They can easily jump a six foot fence, and poor Copper would barely be a snack.

But chasing coyotes is a little different than running to the hen house expecting to find a weasel. These coyotes have looked in our window, closed in on us and even chased our car. I’m not quite ready to see just how bold they are by running after them with a hoe and a flashlight.

So I stand on the porch in my pajamas holding a hoe in one hand and a flashlight in the other with thoughts racing and feet firmly planted.

A moment later, I am joined by Zane, a giant of a Doberman Pinscher whose shoulder stands at my hip. He gives me a smile only a Doberman can then reads the concern on my face as I look anxiously toward the hen house.

Instantly he turns from submissive, wriggly, over-sized puppy hoping for a scratch behind the ear to fearsome beast, his wrath evident in a vicious snarl and horrific charge. The coyotes take flight and disappear in the soybean field to the west as Zane halts at the property line.

I watch as he trots our western boundary, glaring into the darkness, voicing his anger and marking every few feet. I’m not alone. In the beam of the flashlight, I catch the eye shine of at least four animals lying amongst the soybeans watching him pace.

They finally move on and he returns to me, wagging is whole backside and smiling his Doberman smile, hoping for a scratch behind the ear.

I heartily oblige. “Good boy, Zane! Good boy!”  I so want to let him in the house, to reward him properly for his feat.

Thing is, he isn’t even our dog.

__________________________

Image courtesy of Webshots.

At least until I’m close enough for the geese to hear me and their chorus of peeping assures me that all is well.

Since losing over half our flock, I’ve become a little more vigilant in watching over them. Hunter is no longer allowed in the house during the heat of the day. Copper is tied out near the goose pen where he can hunt voles and hopefully discourage the weasel. A squawk, a sudden flurry of flapping, a bark from any of the dogs . . all will send me running outside, certain my flock is under attack.

And believe me, now that my cockerels have turned into hormonal teenagers, there is a lot of squawking and flurries of flapping going on. The hens will have none of it and the cockerels won’t give it up.

You can imagine my response (and my pulse!) at two in the morning when I’m awakened by a chick’s scream. It’s a sound I’ve heard often enough. I have four chicks that free range with the rest of the flock and every so often they get a little too close to the hens at feeding time. Fortunately, these are warning pecks, aimed at teaching the chicks their proper place in the flock hierarchy.

But it is still a scream. And to someone who has heard it at almost every feeding, it is unmistakable.

And chickens don’t squabble at two in the morning. They’re silent. Even with the dog in the attached kennel barking like mad, they are silent and seemingly oblivious to all disruptions and intrusions.

So anyway, this is the point in the story where I’m running to the hen house barefoot and in my pajamas. I forgot the flashlight but at the last second hesitated just long enough to grab a hoe. After all, weasels and raccoons both have been known to stand their ground over a fresh kill, even against a human.

I don’t really stop to think whether it is smart to challenge them. The bites, the stitches, the rabies shots. It might be better to just replace the flock, but I think those are the costs you don’t count until after the crisis is over.

I fling open the hen house and . . . nothing. No disturbance. No chickens flapping wildly. No feathers settling from a struggle. No shuffling, even. Just the slight little coo my chickens always give when I open the hen house at night and the peeping of the geese in friendly greeting. By the porch light, I can see there’s no disturbance, but I decide to fetch a flashlight to do an actual head count.

Everyone’s accounted for.

But I’ll hear the scream three more times before the night is over. And each scream will send me running, though each time I’ll be a little less panicked.

In the morning, I discover the culprit.

The northern mockingbird. Renowned for his mimicry. Renowned for his late night singing. He can learn the songs of over 200 species in his lifetime, and ours has to go and choose the scream of a chick to perfect in the wee hours of the morning.

I had no idea what could have caused them to die so suddenly and without any symptoms. For the most part, geese are hardy and anything that would kill a gosling would kill a chicken first. But my chicken flock is healthy, no signs of disease and certainly none dropping dead without warning. At least so long as Pepper, AKA Chicken Killer, hasn’t gotten to them.

A little over a week later, three more died under the same circumstances: in their pen, within an hour of being checked on and without any symptoms whatsoever.

I felt like crying. We’ve lost over half our little flock and now have only one female and two males. And I really love our little goslings. They’re so different from chickens. So much more personable and they always run to the front of their pen to peep at me in greeting when I come to check on them. They follow me about while I do my garden chores and I’ve found their constant chatter to be a most beautiful sort of music to work to.

But they were dying and I didn’t even know why.

Then I found the chick. It was dead in the hen house, dragged partway through the kennel I keep in there for the chicks to escape to when the hens pester them too much. Whatever dragged it that far had a bit of strength behind it. It was firmly wedged and I think I may have broken its back dislodging it. Because of this, I inspected the body much more carefully and found two tiny bite marks just under the eye.

Weasel crossed my mind, but it was the middle of the day. Whatever it was walked right through our property with twenty two free ranging poultry, entered the hen house and chose a chick it was going to have to drag through bars to take home.

Then I talked to a neighbor. Well, a sort of neighbor. They live a few miles from here, but they keep geese and chickens, too. And they have lost several to weasels. Who were hunting during the day. Who left evidence so slight that she didn’t catch it until she started looking very closely for the tell tale bites around the head or neck.

And I’m not happy. Weasels are not easy to stop once they get started. They can wipe out a flock in a single attack, for they tend to kill until there is nothing left to kill or their little murderous spree is interrupted. Then they stack their quarry and camp out near the carcasses to gorge themselves for days.  They are difficult to keep out for they can squeeze through any opening large enough for a mouse to enter.

And I’ve now learned that hawks aren’t the only predators I need to worry about during the day. We have a tractor for the young ones because they are the most vulnerable. Since the neighbor’s dog killed one of our chickens (and we have our own Chicken Killer), I’ve been wanting to get some built for the others as well. But this weasel, if that is what we are dealing with, has so far seemed to prefer the penned birds, the ones that don’t have the ability to run away or fly up into a tree.

I’m afraid the tractor intended to keep them safe will become their own death trap.

And I don’t feel any better than when I was clueless as to what was causing the deaths. I feel rather helpless, actually. Because I know I can’t just camp out next to them all day every day, and eventually this little thing will find its way into the hen house at night. Probably as soon as it realizes the dog is only dangerous if it goes into the fenced area.

So I sit at the edge of my garden, watching the geese work the rows, peeping at them when they lower their heads and peep at me, stroking them when they waddle over and wondering if I can keep them alive until they are big enough to defend themselves.

geese goslings weasels homestead

They’re here.

Whose here?

The coyotes. Just on the other side of the garage.

I’m busy with the children and not that interested in hearing the coyotes yip and howl. I’ve heard it enough. I have my doubts about their proximity, knowing that they can sound an awful lot closer than they really are. But I am finally coaxed out the door.

Standing in the silence, I ask if he tried to scare the coyotes or just let them be.

Yeah, I banged on the garage and then one howled.

A chill ran up my spine. Because that sounded like a challenge. The yipping that is starting up on the other side of the tree line is one thing. The pack is assembling, quarreling, getting ready to hunt. The howling, however, is reserved for the alpha male asserting his ownership of the territory. The question is, who was the howl directed at? My husband? Our dogs? Or the pack?

One thing is for sure. They are close, and banging on the garage wasn’t doing much to scare them off. We retreat into the safety of the house until morning. An outing with the dog reveals just how close the coyote my husband heard came. A single coyote trotted up along the hedge that marks the edge of our property.

At the road, it turned. It trotted up our drive. It walked in a circle near the garage. It started to head around the back of the garage before turning back toward the road and disappearing in the ditch on the other side.

A little too close for comfort. It isn’t our first encounter with this pack, but they gave us a month of peace. A month of not letting us know they were here, anyway. Now what did they want? Were they just passing through, or were they back, prepared for a fight? They are known to actively lure dogs away, back to the pack where they are disposed of. And the coyotes and I both know my dogs will give chase.

So again I’m uneasy. That we share this land with wild creatures does not scare me. That wild things lurk in the dark and watch me even while I am unaware of their presence makes me only a little nervous. But that we have a wild predator that seems so willing to allow itself to be seen, seems to challenge us even, that I find unnerving.

But you want to hear the part where I attack, don’t you? Trust me, that all is important to the story. The story just isn’t the same without the events leading up to it.

Because you see, this all happened on a Wednesday and Wednesday is AWANAs. On this particular Wednesday, we got home late because I had stopped at WalMart for some groceries. So we get home, I let Hunter out of the chicken coop, lock it up and get the kids and groceries in the house. Teeth brushed, pajamas on, children in bed. Catch up on some email, write a post, Twitter. By now, it’s getting very late, but I spy a bag of groceries on the kitchen floor.

Aye, that too yet. I begin to put them away, but it sure seems like less than it was in the store. Did I really spend so much on so few items? It’s one in the morning and I realize I never got the bags out of the back seat of the car.

I step out on the porch and the coyote chorus begins immediately. I hesitate. Not only are they close, but they started the moment I opened the door. I know they weren’t calling when I was in the house. They’re too close. Too loud. I would have heard it. Coincidence? Or were they “talking” to me? Or about me? Was I again flanked like my husband the night before?

Twenty steps to the car. I stop to look around. I’m surrounded mostly by open ground, but the other side of the car is in a dark shadow. I’m acutely aware of that fact as I open the car door and reach in to turn on the light. And in that moment, as I reach across the seat with my back turned to the darkness, I feel vulnerable. I can’t turn around fast enough.

But nothing is there. With the lights on, it is so much easier to tell myself I’m imagining things. That I imagined the rustle. That I’m imagining danger in the sudden silence of the coyote pack, so vociferous only moments before.

I reach back into the car, over the seat to get the bags. Again, I feel vulnerable. With my back to the darkness, the light does not help. Another shiver runs up my spine and I turn around.

But nothing is there. I grab the bags, close the door and turn toward the house.

A rustle. I. Did. Not. Imagine. That. My grip tightens on my bags as another rustle is accompanied by a tug at the bag in my right hand. My heart and time seem to stand still as I spin around, becoming suddenly aware that the only thing in the bag I’m about to swing is a box of Rice Chex.

Fortunately for me, that was enough. It only took one wallop with the cereal for that bush to think better of messing with me and release my groceries. But I ran in the house anyway, having had enough of the wild things for one night, bushes included.

coyote rural country life

Wait.  Back up a bit.  It’s Friday evening and I come home to discover the chickens missing.  I look around with the flashlight and see no evidence of predators and start looking around the coop, in bushes and in trees.

Here, chickee chickee.  Here, chickee chickee.

Two appear from under the coop which I quickly catch and lock inside.  Kneeling down with a flashlight, I can see the feet of the other two, but they aren’t budging.

Do you know how many things there are out here that would love chicken for dinner?

Reasoning with them doesn’t work.  Even as I list the predators for them.

Weasels, mink, raccoons, foxes, dogs, coyotes, bobcats, cougars . . . and you know, I’m not so sure that the tracks all over around this coop aren’t bobcat.  You may have taken over her old home, you know.

They coo at my voice, but refuse to move.  I give up on catching them, but not on getting them through the night alive.  So I bring the dogs down and walk them around the coop several times.  The plan is to let the dogs out every time they bark, following with a flashlight.  They’re pretty much allowed out anytime they want, anyway, but now the stakes are a little higher.  We’ve only been here for a week, and all evidence suggests that the wild things that lived here before us have not yet ceded their territory.

Fast forward several hours.  They’ve already been out twice, chasing who knows what.  Maybe just barking for the pure joy of it for all I know, but if there is any chance of them getting to the chickens before something that would actually do them harm, I don’t mind.  Hunter is lunging at the window and I’m grabbing my jacket as my daughter says,

There’s something out there, mom.  I see something like a dog.

The dogs race to the door and push past me as they round the corner and take on the intruder at a full run.  Make that intruders.  Hunter is immediately on the heels of one coyote, chasing him across the road, across a cornfield, across another road and I finally lose him in a line of trees.  Copper is doing his best to keep up as the rest of the pack disperses.

Yes, pack.  A whole pack of coyotes (at least ten by my daughter’s count) had been lounging in my front yard only moments before.  Mouse watched them lope up to the yard, not twenty feet from the window.  Some sat and stared back at her, some sniffed around, some even lay down.  None were in the least concerned about us or the dogs lunging at the window.

Until they were released.

I heard Copper’s trail call every few minutes, each time further off in the distance.  I grew concerned at just how far they were running.  And while Hunter may give a single coyote a bit of a challenge, he is no match for a pack.  Not to mention the little beagle.  When would the coyotes decide they were on their own turf and ready to fight for it?  Once I could no longer hear the barking, my anxiety grew.  These coyotes were bold, unlike the ones I am familiar with from other places we have lived.  If it weren’t for the night time yipping, I’d never have known any were present at all.

But this pack was lounging in my yard, in the open and nowhere near cover.  When my daughter looked at them through the window, they just looked back.

Finally, Hunter comes trotting up our road, tail held high as he keeps pausing and looking behind him.  He is significantly faster than Copper, but he rarely goes far without him.  Copper, however, doesn’t appear.  Hunter trots to the top of the hill, turns and waits.  I haven’t heard Copper’s bugle in some time, but Hunter begins to prance and lowers his head in a play bow.  Out from behind a snow drift comes those flopping little beagle ears and both dogs bound to me, overwhelming me with affection.

They are keyed up, and unharmed.  They bear no evidence of anything but a hard run.  But they are excited.  Copper comes in with an energy that seems to set everything around him abuzz.  For the rest of the night, he alerts to everything, even the sound of the heater kicking on.  He is tracker dog extraordinaire.  After all, that little beagle just took on a pack of coyotes and won.

And the chickens made it through the night.  And I . . . well . . . I awoke with a little greater appreciation for the role of the family dog out here where he has a job to do, as well as for the wild things all around us.  There are all kinds of things I know are out here, passing through our property on their nightly hunts.  I know it even without the tell tale tracks in the snow.  But it is different to know something, or even to see evidence of something, than it is to see it for yourself, to confront it and to drive it back.

I think about them sometimes during the day, the coyotes which contribute to significant livestock losses out here, as well as the cougars which seem almost a thing of myth.  Everyone talks about them, and sightings, though rarely confirmed, occupy more than a few conversations over coffee.  Then one gets hit on I-80 in Gretna and you know.  You know. It isn’t just talk, like a rural version of the urban legend.  Because there is no way mountain lions are strolling along I-80 if they are not experiencing population pressure out here.

Sometimes the hair on the back of my neck goes up in the evening as I lock up the chickens.  It is almost as if I can feel something watching me from just beyond the shadows.  Hunter’s low growl as he presses himself protectively against my leg and watches the hedge on the property line makes me hold my feed bucket a little more like a weapon, but I stop to stare into the darkness.  Because these wild things that lurk in the shadows were as much a part of why I wanted to move out here as the ability to raise the chickens and goats I will have to work so diligently to protect from them.

coyotes predators rural life homesteading