Well, dear reader, the chicken drama continues here on the farm. I have lost two of my favorite chickens in my little backyard flock. On Monday, that bothersome hawk was caught in the act of killing my adorable frizzle rooster, Mr. Frizzlebottoms. Of course, the hawk targeted the most beautiful chicken in the flock. Not that I wish death upon any of my chickens, but why could it not have targeted one of the crazy-ass white ones that drive me to insanity with their refusal to roost in the coop and lay eggs willy-nilly about the place?
Instead, it tore my little fat-bottomed buddy to shreds before my eyes. This hawk is no dummy. It A) discovered an easy meal source, B) knows it is protected and can't be shot, C) disappears when I run outside to protect my flock. I hate this bird. I don't usually hate anything, but I hate this bird. I know, I know, it's only following its instincts, and everything needs to eat. However, I have 150 acres filled with snakes, mice, voles, moles, rabbits, and other rodents it could hunt. Good grief, Buster chases field mice every morning around the hay field we walk. I love my big red buddy, but he's not exactly a killing machine or a professionally trained hunter. I feel that if Bus can catch a field mouse, surely a bird that is the equivalent of a deadly sniper can find a meal that is not my pet chickens. Sigh.
I had big plans for Mr. Frizzlebottoms. He was going to be the source of my joy, happiness, and adoration for all the little frizzle babies he was going to provide. I was going to save eggs, buy an incubator, or have my friend Jenna incubate his fuzzy, little, frizzled, fertilized eggs. I was going to have the most adorable, docile flock in the county, maybe even the world. Now, my little dreams of an adorable frizzle takeover are crushed...like Mr. Frizzlebottoms little neck. Sigh.I really hate that hawk.
To add insult to injury, my favorite hen, Jordan Short, died. I am blaming the hawk for her death as well. Although I did not see her ripped apart before my very eyes, I found her dead under the livestock trailer. My theory is that the hawk swooped down, broke her little neck, and in a last-ditch effort to survive, she dove under the trailer to escape being hawk food. Eric said that is not a reasonable scenario at all. He said, more than likely, Jordan Short died of old age. I am going with my outlandish theory, which was the hawk. That hawk sucks. I hate it.
The hawk is young. I don't know how long a hawk lives, but I am guessing long enough to decimate my backyard flock. Between hawk attacks and what I now know is Marek's disease killing my chickens, I will not have any chickens left. My young chickens are dying from a virus common in backyard flocks, Marek's disease. This is entirely preventable if the chicks are vaccinated. I thought I had purchased vaccinated chicks in the spring. Apparently, I am wrong. The disease seems to have run its course, and none of my younger chickens have died recently. Thank goodness. However, now I have a professional killer targeting my flock and killing my most beloved little fuzzies.
I am trying to convince The Bibbed Wonder I need a covered enclosure for my chickens' safety. He is not open to my ideas. Once the springhouse project is done and the goat shed is built in the pasture across the driveway, I will ask for a new chicken coop complete with a covered enclosure. I have some time to think it through and plan it well. I will add this to my "Farm Overhaul List." The Bibbed Wonder does not like my proclivity for list-making and design. Don't worry; I have plenty of time to wear him down and get my way. He eventually comes around to my way of thinking. It just takes a lot of lobbying and effort. Perhaps I will use my most powerful weapon: tears. He hates it when I cry. I know it's a dirty move, but it might be the only way to save my chickens. The plotting continues.
On this chilly December day, stay safe, be smart, protect what is yours even if you must resort to dirty methods like crying, and keep washing your hands.
