We knew we had trouble
when the feed bin in the barn was knocked over. We had bought a good strong bin
with a lid that clasped down. But the second time it was knocked over it had
popped open. Then we noticed foot prints. Or paw prints. We have heard of
problems with fishers in this area, but it was unclear if the prints were
fisher or raccoon. Either one would be as likely and capable of knocking the
bin over and enjoying what spilled.

In the process of getting
the raccoon, my husband accidently knocked the coop door open. The coon of
course ran in. My husband noted some chickens in the inner coop so prevented it
from going that way. Then he called to me and was able to hand those in the
outer coop to me. I took each one and put them all in the inner coop and closed
the door, shouting out to Hopechick that they were all accounted for, and all
were fine. My husband dealt with the raccoon.
But evidently raccoons
don’t travel alone. Almost a week later, on Sunday morning, my daughter again
came running back to the house after checking on the chickens. I was dressed
for church, ready to head out a little early that day with my parents, who were
visiting. She was unable to tell us much, getting only words out. Words
like“all dead” and “only Clara is alive.” I quickly kicked of my heels and
donned my barn shoes, dashing past my mother and out the door to the barn. My
poor girl had to stop half way there because she thought she was going to be
sick. The sight that met me at the coop explained why.
Several chickens lay dead
and headless on the floor of the coop. Two were alive, but badly wounded. One
came in from the outer coop, hearing us I assume, and she looked a little worse
for wear, but not as wounded as the other two. I stood dumbfounded. What had
happened? Taking in what I could, trying not to take in what I couldn’t, I
stood there in my skirt & blouse, hair done, all ready for church,
surveying the sad scene. Some of the bodies were recognizable, which added to
the tragedy. One of the badly wounded survivors was my beloved Clara Cluck. I
was at first glad she had made it, but later saddened by what she must have
endured until she was mercifully removed from her pain.
My husband and parents
arrived at the barn and I returned to the house to call our neighbours. Good
neighbours are always a blessing, but in the country they are a necessity! I
knew they had chickens and have had to deal with predators and wounded birds
before. I also knew they were not the type to just “put down” any wounded
animal, but would be conservative in that regard and help us save any that we
could humanely save.
I hardly had spoken the
words that we had something in the coop when my neighbour quickly said, “We’ll
be right there.” They arrived and helped us assess the situation. We found the
breach in the coop. They helped remove the dead birds. They took the wounded
outside in the light to assess their wounds. It was clear that the two could
not survive. They took them to spare us having to deal with that. They checked
out the one survivor, Mabel, and determined that with help she might be able to
be saved. They left us with a trap and advice on how to trap the predator. We
thanked them gratefully. And we thanked God for experienced neighbours who
cared enough to come, and even offered a hug as they saw the devastation we had
experienced. As they held the wounded chicks, Hopechick said, “Mum, that’s
Clara.” I nodded and my neighbour gave me a hug. They know we’re “greenhorns”
and that with so few chickens they are difficult to lose in such a violent way.
Hopechick and I sat with
Mabel as my husband cleaned the big dog crate we had used as a brooder. We
comforted Mabel and we comforted each other. One would survive. Hopechick
praised God for this. She had called her Mighty Mabel before this, and even
though it was an ironic name for the most timid in the flock, she proved it to
be true.

Since her jaw wouldn’t close all the way we decided to try using a straw to drop some water into her mouth. She couldn’t see, so didn’t balk at the process and swallowed what we fed her. Later we tried some water with food dissolved in it, but it was too thick and she wouldn’t/couldn’t swallow it.
That night we brought her
cage into the house and kept the cat & dog in closed rooms so they wouldn’t
scare her. We have nursed her all week, and she has shown great improvement. By
Monday she was opening one eye well and walking around. By Tuesday she opened
the second eye a bit, and was scratching at the ground and rubbing her beak on
the ground as chickens do when they forage. Her face & comb wounds were
also fading well by this point.

This morning, Friday, I
wrote to a chicken website (www.backyardchickens.com) and asked for advice
about caring for a chicken with a cracked beak. On the advice I received I
soaked some feed in water, not to make a solution as we had tried before, but
just to make the feed soft & fluffy. I put it in a deep dish and held it
for Mabel to see. She began to peck at it and I could tell that she was finally
getting some food into her beak far enough to ingest it!

Meanwhile, we have been
setting the trap in the barn and have caught two more raccoons. These have been
disposed of humanely by a friend of our neighbour. I do not like killing
animals, but when they pose a threat to my children, not to mention the animals
in our care, I am not willing to take chances. Raccoons, by the way, are clever
with traps, and after the first one was trapped the other one moved the trap
and turned it over to get the bait safely. My husband put heavy water cans on
top of it and heavy sand pails beside to finally immobilize it enough so the
raccoon couldn’t move it, and we were able to trap another last night. This is
not quite the adventure I was looking for when we moved to the country, but I
guess it is part of country life, though an unpleasant part. But we take the
bad with the good, learn from it, and move on to hopefully a better, safer coop
for the next batch of chickens.
This whole experience has
made me wonder if it would be better to just keep the hens more pragmatically.
They give us eggs, we care for them, but not to get attached in any way.
However, half the fun of raising chickens has been in getting to know them.
Hopechick could tell them all apart, though I admit that in recent weeks as
they approached adult-hood some were becoming more difficult for me to
recognize. We knew them by personality as much as by look. We knew which would
be the first to come peck at the rivets on jeans when squatted down in the coop
(Omelet), which one would come over jealous of attention another chicken was
getting (Mabel), which we could only pet on the perch but never on the ground
(Clara& Frou Frou). It was hard to lose them, yes, but we will do it all
again with a new brood, though we are not ready to start from chick again quite
yet. We will get pullets ready to lay, hopefully next month, and possibly
consider chicks in the spring when the weather warms up. But we’ll cross that
bridge when we get to it. For now, we move on and start over, a little sadder,
but a little wiser, hopeful that this time our endeavours will not be thwarted.