Blondie, June 2008

     When our phone rings after nine o’clock at night, we know that it probably isn’t good news.  Last night it was Bradley who was out in the lane walking his dog.
     “I know who’s after your chickens,” he said.  “Coyotes.  A whole pack.”
     He had seen two Wily Es jump over our fence from the area of our coop into the adjacent meadow.  As he swept the area with his flashlight he said, “There are at least six of them.  I see their eyes shining.  They are about halfway down the meadow over by Cristen’s fence.  Waiting.”
     We stood at our east door peering into the darkness but, of course, could only see Bradley’s flashlight as he walked across the meadow toward the marauders. “They seem to be fearless,” he said.  “They’re standing their ground.”  I didn’t know if Bradley was being fearless or foolish…  He finally headed home and we headed for bed.  There didn’t seem much to do about the problem in the dark.
     Nyel is convinced that the coyotes are the second wave in the assault against our chickens.  “There’s no way a coyote could have gotten in and out of the run through those holes in the chicken wire.  They were too small.”  He thinks those first breaches were made by a possum or a raccoon.
     Nevertheless, I was glad that the girls were tucked up snugly in the coop and that the hatches were solidly battened down.  Six coyotes sounded formidable, indeed.  I have visions of a completely destroyed run waiting to show itself at sunrise.
     Meanwhile yesterday, we did determine that the second hen to go missing was Blondie – so named because she began as a little yellow puffball, retained blond streaks in her feathers, and was irresistible to roosters.  She also was the only hen that ‘asked’ to be petted and who always trotted over to ‘work’ beside me in the garden.
     I am reminded of second-grader Dani Morrison who was the first real farmer-child I’d ever taught.  When I asked what she had named her baby lambs, she looked at me with no comprehension at all.  Her father later told me, “The lambs aren’t pets.  They’re farm animals.  We don’t name farm animals.”
     And now I understand why.  We never should have named Blondie.