I thought what any chicken owner would think.

My chickens were delighted. So the next night I made sure the water table was parked there and placed a bucket under our other porch light. Suddenly I’m motivated to fix the other two outdoor lights we have.

What’s more, June bugs are a bit of a pest, defoliating shrubs and trees in early spring. By mid summer, their grubs are ready to start damaging your lawn and even your vegetable patch.

A healthy lawn is usually able to handle a mild attack of June bug larva, but they can become a problem when conditions are dry (as they usually are here in Nebraska come August) or if the larva population is just too large. My chickens are doing their part to keep the numbers under control!

I may even go sweep up all the beetles that crash land on my sidewalk and patio. I think they’ll store nicely in a bucket until morning.

June bug garden chicken organic pest control

Fortunately for you, perhaps, I do not have a working camera so you will be spared any graphic pictures of the process.

I had planned on making a video of our first bird so that the whole world could watch with me as I either followed through or chickened out. Alas, that shall not be…although perhaps I should mention that it was my husband who actually did the killing. I was charged with the supporting role, that of chicken holder and instruction giver.

Not that I had a clue what I was talking about, but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. I’m just giving you a little time to decide whether you really want to go through with reading this. While there may not be any actual pictures, words can sometimes be just as graphic. So here’s a more pleasant picture, just to help you not think too much about it. Aren’t they cute? The Cornish Cross is the white one.

The first to go was a little hen. It surprised me how incredibly calm the bird was as soon as she was placed on her back, and her neck placed between the two nails designed to keep her head still. My job was to stretch her out, hold her wings and say when. We had a slight discussion about how exactly to kill her; John favored just whacking her head off with the knife. A deep breath and a nod from me and the knife came down.

It  didn’t work. He broke her neck, instead, which isn’t particularly good. She went completely limp as he took the knife and made a quick slice to sever the head.

The flapping was incredible. I didn’t have that good of a hold on her, her being limp and all. The headless chicken flapped off the table, hit my leg (leaving a bit of a bruise, actually) and flopped on the ground until John grabbed the string holding her legs together and tied her up over the bucket that was supposed to catch the blood.

That was the most pointless piece of equipment we had. All the birds flapped too much to get any significant amount of blood actually in the bucket. But that was my first real surprise (beyond the fact that we had actually done it): there really isn’t that much blood.

Chicken number two was Purple Bird, a cockerel. I thought killing him would bother me more. He was, after all, a bit of a pet. Due to injury, he had spent some time in the house with his legs taped together and became quite tame. He followed me everywhere, came when he was called, and calmed down at the sound of my voice.

See, look at them here at about four weeks. They were all pretty tame. Always hopeful for food, they followed everyone around. If no one was around, they’d peck at the door, just to make sure you remembered they were there in case you had left overs or something.

Maybe I’m just heartless, or maybe there is a certain mental state you can enter to block that all out. One way or the other, I held him on his back, head in position between the two nails and discussed how best to dispatch him. I decided for the jugular. It is supposed to be the best way to bleed the birds out. The only problem was, I wasn’t exactly sure how to find it.

So I ran in to check the internet. Those pictures looked much more like a vein than anything we saw hidden under all those feathers, but opted for a quick slice where I thought the jugular should be.

He hit it perfectly with a good spout of blood following. Purple Bird was too strong for me, however, and flapped right out of my grasp, bruising my arm and fighting like mad as he swung from the bottom of the string.

Unlike the first bird, however, he was clearly aware. He vomited, even. It took maybe 10 seconds until it was over, but it bothered me.

“Stuff the best bleed,” I decided.

I wasn’t putting a bird through that again. Or myself for that matter.

We’re doing this because we like chickens. We like having them around. We enjoy their antics. We enjoy the freedom we can give them. And if we’re going to eat chicken, I prefer it to be one that has had a happy life enjoying fresh air, green grass and whatever insects he can scratch up as opposed to a life in a shed with a clipped beak and a thousand other birds. Purple Bird would have been culled or pecked to death because the treatment for his injury cost more than he was worth. But I feel a certain responsibility to all the animals in our care, and I certainly don’t want them to suffer unnecessarily.

So from that point on, we just severed the heads. Quickly, cleanly and assured that any awareness on the part of the bird was momentary at best.

The flapping was difficult to manage, and two of the birds bruised themselves. In fact, Purple Bird broke his own wing. As in the bone was protruding from the skin. A killing cone, I think, shall be made or purchased before we slaughter (perhaps before we purchase!) another meat bird.

But the hardest part was over. We had actually followed through with it, and slaughtered four birds. They all hung (not so) neatly from our crab apple tree bleeding out and awaiting me to go check the internet again to figure out what to do next.

…to be continued…

chickens broilers slaughtering chickens poultry

For starters

The first thing you need to do is figure out why you want chickens. For show? For eggs? For meat? I’m guessing most beginners are looking for eggs and an interesting pet.  Layers are a little a less fussy to care for, but they are a time investment. You will have to care for them for approximately six months before they lay their first egg and then they lay productively for about three years. The average chicken can live seven years, however, so you will need to figure out now what to do with your retired hens. Many people just keep them on as pets, some give them away (where they likely end up in the stew pot) and some put them in the stew pot themselves.  I promised our children that we’d keep the first four on like pets, but to get used to the idea now that subsequent chicks were destined for the table when their laying days were over.

We’ll see how mom handles that one when the time comes.

Know the law.

Before starting chicks, know what the law is in your area. Your state Department of Agriculture should be able to help you, and it is only a matter of a few phone calls or emails. It is quite common for residential areas to limit you to three hens and to restrict roosters, but it varies widely.

Selecting chicks

When you are sure you are ready for the commitment, it is time to figure out exactly which chickens you want. Henderson’s Breed Chart is an excellent resource for figuring out what breed will work for you. It gives you information about how many eggs to expect, what color the eggs are, how friendly the birds are, how flighty, how well they do on pasture, and how cold hardy they are and more, all in a nice chart that allows for easy comparison. Availability of chicks is something to consider as you look at the chart, however. If you’re ordering from a hatchery, you can get pretty much anything but expect a minimum order of 25 (or the inclusion of extra roosters for packing peanuts). If you’re purchasing from a feed store, you will be limited to a few breeds. Know what they are and compare them.

At the store, make sure the chicks look healthy before buying them. Baby chicks actually have a high mortality rate, and there is no sense bringing sick or pitiful looking ones home to “rescue” them. It almost always ends badly. They should be lively, and a bit skittish, running away when you try to catch them. They should also be clean, and their food and water should be relatively clean. I say relatively because you will find out very quickly that it is impossible to keep the bedding out of their dishes, so you have to forgive a bit of bedding.

What to buy.

Chicks, chick starter (medicated or unmedicated…we start them on medicated and switch to unmedicated when they feather out. All the medication is out of their system long before they begin to lay.), a feeder, a waterers and a heat lamp.  You do not need grit so long as your chicks are fed chick starter exclusively.

The brooder.

OK, so really you should have thought about this before you bought your chicks. Your brooder should be sitting in a warm, draft free place complete with feeder, waterer and heat lamp, all ready for your baby chicks. But who does that? I didn’t for my first four, nor for the 18 we just purchased last week.  Brooders can get expensive. A nice one ordered from the hatchery can run you over $250, and it will be a long time before you have enough eggs to justify that kind of investment.

But essentially all you need is somewhere to keep your birds warm and protected, and you can easily make your own or repurpose something else you have lying about the house. Our first brooder for four chicks was an old guinea pig cage. We’re using a dog kennel for the 18 we have now, which works as well for keeping dogs out as it does for keeping dogs in.  It can also double as a chicken tractor later when you set it on the lawn while you clean the mess they make on the garage floor.  Rubbermaid storage containers are a popular do it yourself brooder, and you can even use cardboard boxes.

The temperature.

Chicks need to be kept at 95 degrees their first week, with temperature needs lowering each week until they feather out. You can get a thermometer, and this is what is nice about commercial brooders. They come with a thermostat, taking some of the guesswork out. But you can also just ask your chicks. They’ll tell you whether they are too hot or too cold.

If all your chicks are huddled together under the heat lamp, they’re cold. Try lowering the heat lamp or providing insulation. I have a quilt over our kennel to keep some of the heat in, and the first week we had them in a box inside the kennel. This was mainly because some were small enough to fit through the bars, but the sides of the box also warmed under the heat lamp, helping to hold the heat in more. You may need to move them to a warmer location, like your basement or laundry room.

If your chicks are all as far from the heat lamp as they can get, they are too warm. Try raising the heat lamp or moving it to the side so they can get away from the heat.

Too cold

Ideally, when you look at your chicks, they should be all over. Some under the lamp, some at the feeder, some at the waterer, some resting in another corner. This is harder to see if you only have a couple chicks, but if even a couple are always under the heater or always as far from it as they can get, you know the temperature is a little off.

Just right

Once their down is replaced with feathers, you can remove the heat lamp and put them in their outdoor coop. If protected from the wind in a small area where their body heat can warm the air, they can withstand temperature down to zero without any ill effects. Below that and you really need to consider some supplemental heating.

What to watch for.

Chicks die.

They’re really good at it. I’ve read that you should figure on losing up to 20%, but fortunately am yet to lose a chick. There’s a thousand things they die from, but essentially there are a few things you can do to increase your chances. Keep them warm, but not too warm. Keep them out of drafts, but be sure air can circulate. Clean their brooder regularly so they aren’t continually pecking at their own filth. Clean their feed and water dishes regularly. Remember that it is 95 degrees in there and there is no way you’re keeping chicken poo out of the water. It turns gross fast. I change their water and rinse out the container several times a day, wash it daily, and disinfect it regularly.

Also watch for what is known as “pasty butt.” It can be fatal, but is so simple to fix there’s no reason it has to be. Basically, a bit of poo gets stuck to their bottom, covering their vent and not allowing more poo to come out. You just need to get it off. Most things I’ve read suggest dipping those tushes in warm water and gently cleansing the area.  If the chick loses a bit of fluff back there, it may peep in complaint but it won’t do any long term damage and that is far better than just letting it die!

Get to know some people with experience.

My favorite source of information is the forums at Backyard Chickens. It has 50,000 members, many of whom are self-professed chicken addicts. They have a wealth of experience and are more than happy to answer your questions. You usually even get a response within fifteen minutes or so if you are having a problem.

Enjoy your chicks!

Watch them often, and hold them daily. Feel their soft down, and take pleasure in the constant peeping. Let your children hold them, but be cautious with this. You don’t want to get your children sick! My children are allowed to hold them pretty much whenever they want, I try to keep them from kissing them and I give them a bit of hand sanitizer when they’re done.  The children have never had any adverse effects, and it sure makes for tame birds. Two of our hens even follow me around, let me pick them up and seem to enjoy the occasional scratch behind the head.

There is nothing like a curious and affectionate child to tame the entire flock.

We’re getting ready to make a more proper chicken tractor for our birds that will be large enough to house all the layers and I’ll share that process when we get to it!

Yet more chicken blogs! If you would like yours added, just leave the link in the comments, and I’ll add it to the entry after taking a peep!

Kansas City Urban Chickens Examiner (May say KC, but she has a lot of information relevant to anyone interested in chickens.)

chickens, chicks, backyard chickens

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Curious about the farm life? Check out the Homesteading Carnival!

The Roscommon Acres Definitive Guide for Why You, Too, Should Consider Chickens

Chickens are educational.

From breed selection through their first precious eggs and beyond, you will amazed at how much there is to learn about and from chickens.  As a homeschooling family, our primary interest was the lessons to be learned.  We learned a little about meat birds, though layers were our focus, and discovered the wonderful world of dual purpose breeds.  Then heritage breeds. Then this whole issue of industrial agriculture and what it means for the genetic diversity of the simple chicken as they are continually selectively bred for larger breasts or greater egg production.  Right now, we are comparing the development of a Cornish Cross, the standard in meat production, to the Plymouth Rock, a heritage breed that can be used both as a meat bird and a layer.  Stay tuned for periodic updates on their comparative development, dressing weights and flavor as we blog their little lives all the way to the dinner table.

Without chickens, there can be no eggs.

Yes, of course you can get those watery things from the grocery store.  But once you find that first, beautiful egg in the nest box, you know that eggs from backyard chickens are happier, healthier and better looking.  The yolk is a deeper color, the whites stiffer, the shells harder.  And then there is just the sense of accomplishment. Of raising something yourself and reaping the benefits of your labor. You may find yourself peeking in the refrigerator, just to look at the eggs, and then you will know there is something special about these eggs beyond any proposed health benefits.

Chicken poo is the black gold of gardening.

Simply put, if you garden, you have a use for chickens. Chicken manure is rich in nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash, as well as organic matter that will build soil while nourishing your plants. Trust me. Your plants will thank you. Just remember that chicken poo is HOT. If not composted prior to applying, you risk burning your plants. As an added bonus (if you have enough chickens, anyway), you can use the manure in a hotbed, and use that hot composting action to warm seedlings outside the normal growing season.

Chickens are good insect control.

Chickens are omnivores, but you haven’t seen a chicken live until you’ve watched it chase bugs. My chickens will spot an earthworm on my shovel from across the yard and come racing, necks outstretched and wings flapping to get to it before I finish turning the soil. They provide excellent control for ticks, flies, mosquitoes, ants, slugs, snails and just about anything else they can catch.

Chickens are good tillers.

At the end of the growing season, turn your chickens loose on your garden. They will finish off the green stuff you leave standing, scratch and turn the soil in the continual hunt for insects and dust baths, decrease the number of hibernating and pupating pests and leave a nice layer of fertilizer to get you started for next year.

Chickens make great garbage disposals.

Think of them as pigs with feathers. Carrot peelings, left over oatmeal, bits of spaghetti…garbage to you and treats to a chicken.  Feeding chickens your kitchen scraps puts your garbage to good use while lowering your feed cost.  There’s very little they won’t eat, but I’ve read that you shouldn’t feed them potato peelings, avocado, dry beans or eggplant.

Chickens are good therapy.

Everyone I talk to who owns chickens spends time just watching their flock. Sure, it is good practice to spend a lot of time watching any animal in your care. Especially in chickens, where their signals that something is wrong are slight. But that isn’t why we do it. We do it because it feels good. Because in that moment, things are still and quiet and you can let your mind wander. Because there’s nothing quite like a freshly laid egg to warm your hands on a brisk morning. Because touching and frying and tasting the products of your labor brings meaning to breakfast that can never come from a styrofoam carton at WalMart.

Chickens are political.

While there are cities across the nation that are quite friendly to chickens (would you believe that even New York City allows an unlimited number of hens?!), there are others which just don’t quite seem to get it. If your area doesn’t allow chickens, ask around. You might be surprised to stumble upon a vast underground chicken movement.  Citizens nationwide are banding together and working to change legislation to allow small backyard flocks. Their arguments and tactics are actually very similar to that of the homeschool movement, and you may be surprised to find liberals and conservatives working together to change the same laws for some of the very same reasons. Kinda like us homeschoolers.

Chickens build community.

They are an oddity, especially if you live in an urban or suburban area. A few fresh eggs delivered here or there normally quells any initial worry about the smell or the noise people seem to glean from stereotypes, and you just might find your neighbor looking over the fence at your flock busy with some weeding or insect control. Our old place backed up against a baseball field, and one afternoon, a woman came and asked if she could photograph our chickens who were running free about the backyard. She was delighted at how such a simple little animal made the connection between town and country seem closer.  Neighbors stopped to look in the coop, children asked to pet them and strangers spontaneously began talking about their chickens, or their grandmother’s flock they remembered growing up. One of our neighbors even helped us with the construction of the roost.

Convinced?  Check out my entry on getting started with chickens.  Still looking for more information? Ask away! I may not know the answer, but I’ll do my best to help you find it!

Do you have chickens? Have you blogged about them? My Mr. Linky seems to have stopped working, so feel free to add a link to the comment box and I will add it to the entry! Thank you!!

More chicken blogs:

(not so) urban hennery Thoughts on country living, farming, gardening and eating locally

Raising Chickens: Keeping chickens in your backyard The title pretty much explains it all.

The Little Egg Farm Delightful personal blog of a grandmother with chickens.

Urban Chickens Network News and information about the backyard chicken.

A bill, a postcard, The Penny Press and. . .oh happy day. . .Orscheln’s flyer.  The local feed store has quickly become my favorite local hangout. I lament all the days wasted wandering WalMart during AWANAs when I could have just as easily visited the feed store across the street.  But that was then, before we had five acres, before we had chickens even.

Then, WalMart defined my world in a strange sense.  Today, Orscheln’s does. But as we research and plan and dream, I sense something else on the horizon. Something that doesn’t have a name, or a logo or a weekly flyer. But more on that later.

I toss the mail on the counter, reserving Orscheln’s flyer to look through over breakfast. I open it up and what should I see in bold green print but “Chicks Are Here!”

Up until this very minute, I had intended on getting our next batch of chickens from a hatchery.  Up until this very minute, I had been frustrated by the minimum orders required by hatcheries or the use of roosters as packing peanuts.  I didn’t need 25 birds, but it looked like ordering from a hatchery was going to provide me with 25 birds, whether I paid for them all or not.

At this very minute, I realize that the feed store really was a better option for us right now.

To no one in particular, I announce that I am going to be at the feed store at 8:45, fifteen minutes before they open.

Why, mommy?

It’s Chick Days.

My husband rolls his eyes. The children leap with excitement. They know what Chick Days are. That’s where they got the four hens we currently have. But we got those at the tail end of the yearly event and pretty much got what was left over. This year would be different. This year, we would get first choice because this year we would be sitting in the parking lot when the doors open.

Yeah, I’m a little weird like that.

Less than 24 hours later and ten minutes before Orscheln’s officially opens, Bear, Bug and I are heading back to the chicks, led by the sound of their peeping. They dart back and forth, trying to look at them all at once. I concentrate on one bin: Plymouth Rock, straight run.

This year, in addition to layers, we are adding on a rooster. A rooster to guard the flock. A rooster to strut about the property. A rooster to crow in the wee hours of the morning and remind us of just how beautiful each and every morning is. A rooster for fertile eggs.

So I ponder the Plymouth Rock, straight run bin.  Straight run means they’re unsexed.  In theory, half of them should be male. How many would I need to guarantee I got at least one rooster? What would I do with a second or even a third?

Someone arrives to help us and I ask somewhat stupidly,

Theoretically, half of these are males, right? So theoretically, if I get five, we should end up with two or three roosters?

He smiles, not sure how to answer the obvious. I smile back, understanding the dilemma I’ve put him in. “It’s ok,” I try to say with that smile. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

Happy with my statistics, I ask for five.

Bear begins to squeal as he recognizes the little Rhode Island Red pullets.

Diego! Diego! They’re just like Diego!

That was the breed he selected last year. He carries her around the property, showing her everything and teaching her to be an explorer like her namesake.

I ask for one of those.

Bear then moves to the Americaunas, fascinated by their many colors.

Are these leghorns? he asks.

No, they’re Americaunas.

Bear and Bug light up simultaneously.

Oh, canwecanwe?!  They lay blue and green eggs, mom! Canwecanwe?!

I ask for four of those.

I look at the Plymouth Rock pullets. Unsure why, I am suddenly drawn to these, a breed I’ve never paid any particular attention to, a breed that has never made it on either my “must check out” or “must avoid” list. A new thought is forming in my mind. I already have five.

I ask for two more.

I ask what is crossed to make a production red. The young man guesses Rhode Island Red and…and, well, something else. “Maybe leghorn?” he ventures. Still, my attention has fallen on them for more than a brief moment.

I ask for one.

Will that be everything?

No, not quite.

Not quite. The new idea, not yet fully formed, needs a point of comparison. Cornish crosses are the standard for meat birds. Ready for slaughter at just six weeks, they present minimal investment in time though they tend to camp out at the feeder, moving only for a drink. They grow so fast, their little legs are known to break under the rapidly increasing weight.

I ask for five.

And now for the comparison.

On their third day with us, you can see that the Cornish Cross (left) is starting to show just a little more size than the Plymouth Rock (right). It feels firmer and more meaty, as well. This is where I discover that our small scale is broken so I can’t do an official weight comparison, but we’ll remedy that over the weekend.

Stay tuned to watch these guys grow toward our dinner table, complete with recipes for how they are eventually served!  Also, if you are interested in raising your own chicks, stay tuned for some rare weekend posting as I discuss the why and how of beginning a small backyard flock.

homeschool home education chickens raising chickens Cornish Cross Plymouth Rock

Some of it is because of technology.  The light bulb has decreased our dependence on the sun, heat and air conditioning has allowed us to regulate our immediate environment despite what nature has in store for us, and the local news has relieved us of the need for learning to read the wind and the clouds.

Some of it is because of our changing economy.  My grandfather was a farmer and to the day he died he stayed up to watch the weather and then went to bed.  An agricultural society depends on the sun and the rain for its daily survival.  We notice droughts when the city imposes water restrictions and we are no longer allowed to water the lawn or wash our cars.  We notice floods when neighborhoods are evacuated.  But for the most part, awareness of the year’s rainfall remains on the periphery of our knowledge, something stored away for small talk in the checkout aisle but rarely personal or meaningful.

The sun itself has lost its significance, for we now schedule our days by the ticking of a clock rather than the rising and setting of the sun.  Surrounded by technology telling us the time, we no longer need to look at the sky to see that it is getting late.

When we moved out here, I knew we were in for many changes.  That the very rhythm of our lives would be altered.  Our work would no longer fall neatly into a planned schedule, looking much the same from day to day, week to week, month to month.  Instead, spring would bring planting and (hopefully) kidding.  Summer would bring weeding and fertilizing and fresh pasture for the animals.  Fall would bring the harvest.  And winter would bring some rest and time for all that we just couldn’t get to earlier in the year.

Now, however, I am aware of the approaching dusk.  I watch the sky as the sun sinks lower on the horizon.  The afternoon turns to early evening, the shadows lengthen and it does not matter what I am doing, it is time to prepare for the coming of night.  Dishes will be left, dinner held, games paused because we are now in a race with the sun.  Before the light changes, before the color of the sky deepens and before the sky is painted with fire, I must catch the cat, bring in the dogs and lock up the chickens.  The coming of night brings not only the close of day, but danger as well.

Coyotes are foremost on my mind, for ours seem bold.  They are a threat to the chickens, the dogs, the cat and even the children.  But we also have bobcats, cougars, foxes and a seemingly endless list of animals that would love to prey on our chickens.  And almost all of them are called out of their sleep by the setting of the sun.

Driving home from Lincoln, I realize I misjudged how long the various errands would take.  I pull into the drive with an odd sense of urgency as I give instructions to get the children and shopping in as quickly as possible.  The last rays of the sun disappear behind the trees as I scoop up the cat on the way back from the chicken coop.  Hunter turns and strains against the leash, looking back across the cornfield toward the treeline that marks the river.  A low growl catches in his throat and I turn to look.  The trees look ominous.  Like a dark hole cut out of a blackening sky.

I quicken my step toward the house.  Hunter comes along, but his ears are erect, his tail held high.  He is on full alert, staring into the enveloping darkness.  I don’t know what he perceives, but I trust his senses and appreciate his presence.

Inside, I turn the lock, release the dog and smile at the children.  We’re home.  We’re safe.  We’re in for the night.

rural life homesteading chickens coyotes

So now I know they’re just chickens and that’s just what chickens do.

The birds are relatively quiet. There is a call now and again. A jay squawks in the treeline. A bird I have not yet identified hides in a bush behind me and makes its “peep, prrreeep.” An entire murder of crows rises from the trees down by the river and flies silently overhead, just beginning to disperse on the other side of our property. I wonder for a moment if they are the reason I have not seen any hawks. And I am a little surprised at just how quiet the morning is.

Still, I just stand there. I’m not really sure how long it has been since I opened the coop door, but not the dogs are just standing in front of me, watching and waiting. They’ve already licked the bowl we use to store our leftovers clean, but they don’t know what to do next until I move. If I walk the property, they will romp off that direction. If I head toward the house, they will be waiting at the door when I get there.

Still, I just stand there. I’m not really thinking about anything. The chickens are almost finished with the tuna fish I pulled out of the back of the refrigerator and are moving on to the carrot peelings from the carrots I put in my husband’s cooler for his trip to Ravenna. The sleet turns to snow and I look up at the sky, asking the dogs if they think we really will get five inches.

I’m soaked, and decide it is probably time to get back to the house. It’s warm inside and the children are just beginning to wake, greeting me in their pajamas with sleep still in their eyes.

Where were you, mommy?

Just feeding the chickens.

And that’s all I really was doing, but it left me refreshed and energized for the day.

chickens chores homesteading

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