The Crippled Chicken Cafe
I was walking around the get the lad out of the car when I first noticed the feathers. There were just a few, but they were red with white at the base, deep feathers, and it wasn’t molting season. I made a mental note to check on the girls as soon as I could get the lad settled with something inside.
My plans were thwarted when he spotted the much larger pile of feathers ranging from the garage all the way to the front door.
“What is with all dose feathers?” he asked, following it with, “Silly chickens.”
I had noticed that our one Rhode Island Red was a lot slower this spring and a lot more hesitant to free range with the rest of the flock. She was one of the two who had come to us with gouty feed, but she was a good scavenger last fall and over the last few days she had started venturing out again. She was definitely slower than the rest, and with all the fox and coyote calls I had been hearing at night, I had figured it was only a matter of time for her.
I decided that it was time for homesteading lesson 101 and sat the lad down on the steps to explain that Big Red had likely been carried off by something and eaten. He careened through the stages of grief in about 5 minutes in a way that only an almost three-year-old can.
“Big Red is not gone. Nobody ate her.”
“I will get that stupid fox or hawk and I will make him spit her up, or I will eat him.”
“It’s ok, Mumma. Grampa can just give us another red chicken.
“Mumma, can I have a little bit of TV?”
Once he was settled in front of PBS kids, I took the dog and slipped out to the coop. The other girls were making a ruckus but were all safe. I went back to the scene of the crime to see if I could find prints, but the mud was still pretty frozen. It looked like a chicken had exploded minus the blood. It wasn’t something I really associated with a four-legged predator.
I texted a picture to my dad who had worked as a Maine Game Warden for 37 years.
“You got hawks?” he asked.
“Redtails and Gosh,” I replied.
“There’s your answer. A fox will generally break the neck and carry it back to the den. Raptors will partially pluck it right on site and take a chunk or two before flying off with it.”
Lovely. I was somewhat doubtful just due to the size of this hen. She was by far the biggest and even Finn found her somewhat intimidating.
I filled my husband in as we sat down to dinner, and we discussed strategies to keep our barn and house cats safe since we clearly had predators that weren’t afraid to come in amongst the buildings.
We had moved on to sunnier topics when the lad suddenly pointed out the window and exclaimed,
“Oh, that! I bet that’s what ate our chicken!”
A huge bald eagle was sitting directly across the road from the house, peering down the driveway as if looking for seconds.
“Yup,”hubs said, “he looks hungry.”
“Dad,” the lad replied. “He’s not hungry! His belly is full of our chicken!”
I sent a picture to my dad. He texted back.
“That explains a lot. Eagles are the smartest raptor and can pretty much count. He’ll move on when they are all gone. Good luck. Lol. Word is out, the Crippled Chicken Cafe is open.”