So a couple of mornings ago, when I went out to feed, I came across an apparent homicide in the chicken pen.
One of my poor, feathered layers- of-protein-filled-goodness lay stiff and headless under the nesting boxes. White feathers were strewn about like a Wisconsin blizzard and the rest of the flock were somewhat subdued as they waddled out for their day of paddock pecking.
I took the poor deceased hen out for a proper internment (tossed her in the nearby grasslands for the coyotes) and pondered as to who was the perp of this heinous act of poultry assassination.
Raccoons would have eaten the evidence, not just the head. Coyotes couldn’t have gotten into the 6′ high chain link enclosure…and would have also dined on the poor girl. Mountain lion? There was one in the neighborhood a couple of months ago. Bobcat? Naw…same reason, and they would have finished off the whole flock. Are there weasels in SE Arizona?
As I got ready for bed the following night I was worried about a recurrence, so left the bedroom window open and kept my ear attuned to the chicken pen. Sure enough, around midnight I was awakened to terrified squawking. Crap!! It’s back for another chicken head!!
I leap—ok, roll—out of bed, throw my jacket on over my t-shirt and slip on my cowboy boots that are by the patio door. Pants? I don’t need no stinkin’ pants!
This is war and my undies will be good enough! So dressed, my 76-year-old, 113-lb. carcass high tails it out to the chickens armed with a flashlight and the determination to take on whatever is lurking and murdering my beloved egg producers! Mountain lion, bobcat, bear, whatever you are, I will destroy you with my…flashlight???
Screaming like a banshee, blinding whatever is in there with my high powered, beaming flashlight I throw open the door and there it is! A cute little, black and white furry ball of stench.
Now for the record, I am an old, peace -loving, do-no-harm vegetarian hippie. I open the door to let out flies! How can I actually kill this animal…with a flashlight, no less?
With my arrival, the poor, dear malodorous beast lets the chicken go (she was unharmed but will need counseling) and scrambles for a hiding place behind a couple of upright pallets I have in the pen. I race to the tackroom for a weapon to dispatch…yes, KILL the perp. Hmm, can’t actually bludgeon it to death with a bridle, a saddle is a bit cumbersome, a screwdriver a bit short (don’t wanna be THAT close to it as it sprays), brushes? Really, Pat?? Then, aha! A crowbar! That will work. Back to the pen I go with my newfound ‘kill stick,’ ready for battle.
Chasing a skunk around a pen in nothing but a jacket, cowboy boots and underpants while wielding a crowbar now seems a bit odd, but hey, something had to be done. We do have a .38 in the house for rattlers but it hasn’t been out of its box in years, and I didn’t have time to read the instructions for loading and firing. Also, what would the neighbors think of a gunshot at midnight ringing out, even though the closest neighbors are about 1/4 mile away?
Around and around Stinky and I raced, the chickens quietly watching from their night perches while I attempted to bludgeon the killer. Finally, he/she (I didn’t stop to check how it identified itself) was trapped, but in a place where I couldn’t get a good swing for a final blow.
It got quiet. Perhaps I injured it enough that it will kinda die, hopefully soon and not too painfully. I’m slowly coming back to my ‘do no harm’ self and feeling guilty. I just left it alone, checked on the victim and hoped that Stinky would never return to the sight of the crime.
I came back to the house, leaving my stinking jacket, t-shirt and boots on the patio to air out and said to hubby, “I can’t believe I just tried to kill an animal.”
But then, the chickens are part of the family and a grandma must protect her own, right? Hubby agreed with me, rolled over and went to sleep.
I laid awake most of the rest of the night, asking the skunk god to please forgive me and please turn her creation into a vegetarian! This morning I went out to feed and there was no dead skunk, just its odor was left behind. I wish it well and hope to never see it again. The next time I will at least put on some pants before doing battle!