This Means War

Shit got real this past weekend. We lost two more chickens. That's three birds in less than three days.

I hesitate to reveal which ones because: 1. I obviously think my four readers consider the Winiferd family superstars and will thus sob profusely, and 2. one of the chickens who died actually was a superstar.

That's right. The predator took Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. He also took Hester Prynne.

Jane

Hester 

Baby Jane. Sniff.

Baby Hester, our shy one

It all started on Friday night. Winnie began barking at around 3:00 am. I sleep like the dead and barely noticed. But an irritated Ian tossed Winnie out of the bedroom, thinking she was barking at the cats.

In a less sleepy state, I would have instantly realized something was amiss. Winnie was barking aggressively, which she only does when something is wrong.

At around 3:30 am, Winnie began barking again. I decided this meant she needed to go to the bathroom (What? I was sleepy), so I leashed her up and groggily led her into the front yard. Winnie lunged frantically against her leash, trying to bolt to the backyard.

I picked her up, placed her in the yard, and commanded her to use the bathroom. She used the bathroom. Then I dragged a still-frantic Winnie back towards the house.

By the time we reached the carport, Winnie had grown wild. At that point, I got nervous. I made the most logical assumption one could make in that situation: an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac was in the backyard (WHAT? I was sleepy).

I scooped up Winnie, dashed inside, and locked the door. Winnie and I trotted back into the bedroom.

Ian: "Did Winnie bark?"

Laura: "Yes. She kept lunging towards the backyard."

Ian: "Something's probably after the chickens!"

Laura: "But... I thought it was homicidal maniac. With an axe. [Did I mention I was sleepy?]

Ian scrambled outside, while I fretted over homicidal maniacs.

He returned several minutes later and announced, "No more Hester. And no more Jane."

Bye bye, Janathan 

Hester in the middle of her siblings, always the calm one

Hester Prynne

We think it was a raccoon because it dug underneath the cage to grab the chickens. And we think the raccoon, knowing the chickens' whereabouts, kept coming back for more. 

Laura: "I feel like our chickens are 1940s Jewish refugees, and the raccoons and foxes are the Gestapo."

Ian: "Marjorine's writing a diary."

The next morning, we pronounced war on the wildlife. We dragged one chicken coop into the barn and dragged the other chicken coop directly beside it on the outside of the barn.

The indoor coop

The outdoor coop

Ian cut out out a door and fashioned a walkway between the two coops. 

Ian: "The chickens have a bathhouse. We're going to learn which ones are secretly gay."

Laura: "And Republican."

Marjorine and Sal inspecting the walkway/ bathhouse 

The chickens have access to both coops during the day. At night, we close off the walkway so that they spend the night in a cage inside the barn for double protection.

So far, it's worked. We hope we've thrown the predator for a loop.  

So we're down to four: Sal, Marjorine, Polly, and Caroline.

And to the area wildlife, we formally issue the following statement: Go to hell, motherfuckers. The war is on.