The turnover
by Kelli Bowen
We have moved our chickens into a bougier coop: complete with a fenced run. This run doesn’t have a top. To be honest, if our chickens were smarter, they might realize that they can probably jump right out.
Miss E and Miss A have gotten a little lax with shutting the coop up at night: false sense of security and all. I said, it isn’t a matter of “IF,” it’s a matter of “when” the predators find them. Alas, me not being a teenager, I lack the all-knowingness of my children. But then...
We have eight hens and one rooster. He’s a little black silkie, a pompous little thing, named “Darth Vader” as a nod to my children’s Star-Wars-obsessed uncle.
Darth Vader does his job, his duty, with his eight-hen harem. He alerts us to the rise of a new day. Until yesterday…
Everyone got up and ready for school or work. The girls took the bus, and I hung back: I had some non-work errands to handle with my day off. I thought it odd I didn’t hear any crowing from the coop, but I didn’t let on about my suspicions. I sent my family on their way and then headed to the coop.
I called “Chiiiiiiiiiickens” as I walked up. Nothing. Usually, the little feathery dinosaurs would come bopping toward me, but not this morning.
I opened the door to the coop and see five hens in the tippy-top roost looking at me with a look of, “Dude. Where have you been?!?” They hop down and circle me. I count again: 1-2-3-4-5. Shoot.
Three silkies, including Darth Vader, plus one full-size hen, are gone. I go out behind the coop and find a lifeless full-size hen, missing her head and part of her spine. Shoot.
The missing flock are the girls’ favorite chickens. Of course their FAVORITE chickens were snatched.
I waited for the big yellow bus to bring the girls home. I sat them down and explained what happened. Tears. Guilt. So many tears flowed as they processed last night’s events and what we could have, and should have, done better.
Once time had passed and all the big feelings were at bay, Hubby suggested we try to incubate and hatch some of the last eggs from the flock that is no longer. The girls sorted and marked the eggs, and we set up the hatch station in the basement.
Also in the basement, the girls met: Topper, Bean, Potato, Chewie, Lemoncake, and Darth Vader 2.
I ran to the nearest farm store earlier that afternoon to hedge our bets a bit.
May the odds be ever in your favor. Momma ain’t running out of eggs.
Kelli, a North Dakota girl through and through, has made her home from the eastern prairies to the western badlands with her supportive Hubby, two daughters, and ever-growing menagerie accompanying her along the way.