I’m a self-proclaimed chicken rancher—a lover of chickens, a fan of all things fowl. My little flock of 16 chickens gives me lots of joy and, of course, a few eggs. As with my dogs, my chickens enjoy a charmed life: free run of the yard, fresh greens, and heat lamps in the winter. Since bringing them in the house is not an option (Zach feels that chickens on the couch is where he must draw the line), I must trust that the outside world will be kind.
The first “kidnapping” occurred in the afternoon. All that remained of a glorious Barred Rock were a few scratches in the dirt and a puff of feathers and all the other chickens huddled in the pen looking traumatized. I fantasized that she fought back and gave her attacker a hard time, but in reality it probably was over before it started, and she floated off to the great chicken house in the sky clutched in the talons of a giant owl.
We rallied after that traumatic day. I made adjustments and put the chickens in earlier every day. It didn’t stop that big old owl from coming every evening waiting for me to let down my guard. Then it happened again—this time one of my white Leghorns was snatched up in a split second. I heard the bell on the gate ring when she caught the chicken on the gate as she swooped out of the yard and to her hideaway in Lars’s barn ( yep, Lars is harboring a fugitive). White feathers were still floating in the air when I ran out. I could only hope it was quick. I was down to two white chickens, and I soon realized they were targets and I had no way to keep them safe. We were at war.
On one fateful evening I didn’t get home in time to close the pen. I gathered the chickens and realized I was missing yet another white hen. I had only one left. I cursed the open air. I knew somewhere that owl was lurking around having a fine chicken dinner. Even so I couldn’t blame her; I was making it too easy. So we went on lockdown. No chickens in, no chickens out, and since my chickens were used to roaming free, there was lots of wailing and clucking. A couple of weeks went by, and every now and then Zach or I would feel sorry for them and let them out, only to put them right back in—we couldn’t chance it.
One morning I looked out the kitchen window and saw a white chicken pecking at the grass. Moments later I saw the same chicken scratching in the compost pile. Then I realized the chickens were still locked up. Somehow the chicken that had disappeared was back. Zach didn’t believe me because when I got him to come and see, the white hen was nowhere to be found. He kind of gave me the “sure she did” face, referred to her as a “ghost chicken,” and went inside. For three days I held a vigil for this chicken, running outside first thing in the morning to try and prove her existence, and for three days no luck, until Zach spied her casually eating grass in the back yard. The “ghost chicken” had somehow escaped her captor and returned home.
Our POW is now safe and sound and reunited with her fellow chickens, and as of now she isn’t talking. We may have won this battle, but there is still no end to this war in sight.