A Chicken Story: The Fox

(Brace yourself)

It was 11:40pm. I was reading a college assigned book in a battle to keep eye lids open. Determined to finish, I was struggling to maintain focus when suddenly a cry pierced the night- and then another and another- there had to have been over thirty voices calling in unison. I knew that sound, I’ve known it for years- chickens in distress. Immediately I remembered I had left the chicken gate open wide. With haste pillows fly, feet hit floor and smooth socks on hard wood carry me to the door like the millennium falcon going into hyperspace. I pick up Danny along the way and grab the nearest shoes I can find, which happen to be my father’s, and for the life of me I can’t find a flashlight. But there’s no time, so we advance without.

The yard is dark and I fumble to the light in the shed. The coop glows but reveals nothing amiss. Opening the hen house door I’m greeted by many perched, comb-crowned heads fully awake and squawking. If only I could speak chicken-eze. There seems to be no problem but the ruffled feathers and dilated pupils of many fowl leave me feeling unsure. Dark patches compete with the little bulb illuminating the yard making hiding easy. Nothing featherless was in the coop, but something from another kingdom family could definitely be in the pen.

Then suddenly a red flash of hair. “Why is the cat here?” asks Danny.

Ah but that’s no cat.

That’s a vexed vixen, for the chicken eating party just got canceled.

The night is silent. And I hear it beating- the rhythm of her heart that of a fast-paced crescendo. Or is that mine? Light beams make her blink as she franticly tries to climb the fence but is stopped by the netting coating the top. Danny grabs a rake and attempts to caress her down and out the door but unclipped fox nails hold fast on wire fence and she stares. He’s literally inches from her but she barks not, nor growls, just embodies silent panic. After falling again to the ground, she seems to become blind to the open door and invites us to chase her around the pen. So there we are. It’s midnight. Danny runs with a rake after the glossy amber coated creature and I run behind offering my best attempts to communicate. I knew I should have learned fox… After many unsuccessful rounds, I stand by the doorframe blocking the other half of the pen, while Danny again coaxes her towards the opening. I see her coming at me. She’s got to see it this time. Will she turn? Her whole face is illuminated by light, her eyes big and black with terror. And she runs, almost touching my pajama-pants covered leg as she flies past and into freedom.

And that’s when I see him. A crumpled feathered ball lies by the waterer, breathing heavy. I lean down closer. It’s a rooster. Blood falls red over his eyes and salt water brim mine. I carry him to the garage where he spends the night in a carrier.

The next morning I’m happily surprised to find the bird is still alive and might possibly live to crow another day. Now the irony here is I’ve been trying to GET RID of roosters for the life of me but alas I have respect for birds that survive fox encounters. If he ends up completely recovering I’ll probably have to keep him despite my rooster downsizing mission- he’ll be the overcomer chicken. I have a few of those.

The other fowl began their regular morning routine as if nothing had ever happened the night before and I was relieved to see there were no other casualties or wounded.

And thus concludes another chapter in the life of flock ownership. For a writer craving material, I’ve learned that chickens can offer a lot more than eggs.