Originally Posted by danham
Barely coincidental that the following should pop up on Facebook this morning. This was posted by a neighbor here on Cape Cod:
"Just woke up to the most horrific and gruesome sounds coming from my hen house... Threw up my sheets, grabbed my hatchet and ran. Not knowing what to expect I approached with caution. Two dead chickens on the ground two more squawking in the coop. Got closer only to see a good sized coyote burst out of the doorway. Taken by my surprise and trapped he immediately turned on me. Bad move dude. You shoulda taken the first chicken and left when the get'n was good. Greed leads to nowhere good...Now I've got two dead chickens, two extremely disturbed chickens, one less coyote to worry about and a big bloody mess to clean up... Not exactly what I wanted for my Monday morning :( I'm just shocked that the coyote got over a 6' fence! Penny and Rudi, you will be missed! I thank you for your delicious eggs, amazing bug control in my gardens and all the wonderful energy you brought to the yard. Mr. Coyote, I'm sorry it ended like this. I'm sure you'll be missed by your family. May you all rest in peace. I think I need a long hot shower and a cup of tea.... I'm a wee bit too awake to go back to bed right now."
Yeah, I really sympathise with your neighbour. When I had chickens the local foxes used to try and get in. One morning I woke up to an almighty squawking, I lept out of my bed grabbed a shovel that was laying about and got to the hen coop in a flash. I saw some of my beloved chooks, bloodied and torn, and my dismay immediately flashed to rage. The first fox came flying out of the hen house, and in some complete fluke of luck met my full-power baseball-swing shovel going the opposite way. *KLANGGG!* I don't know how, but it either KO'd or killed the thing. It's partner in crime darted out, almost got away but another fury-fueled swing sent it flying into the air. Somehow in some contortion I still can't work out, I've managed to whirl the shovel over my head with all my force and slam the still-airborne fox into the ground, stunning it long enough to deliver a blow to it's head that sent its brains everywhere, breaking the shovel. With the splintered handle I've turned around and stabbed it's KO'd buddy repeatedly.
I didn't realise it at the time but I seem to have been roaring quite loudly, as the rest of my family woke up to this RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA *expletives removed*. Dad sprinted out, to find half our chickens littered on the ground and a dead fox with a giant stake sticking out of it.
We still had half our chickens, but the poor little things were terribly withdrawn and shellshocked for the next 2-3 weeks. Didn't lay an egg, would walk around silently in a daze and make mournful little sounds. I'm still trying to figure out what shocked them the most - the foxes, or the sight of me roaring and bashing their predators with a shovel.
I loved those chooks, they were adorable, each with their own unique personality: Henrietta, Boadicea, Victoria, Elizabeth, Mary and Joan. (Joan, I had to break her little neck, as she was mortally injured but still alive when I got to her.) People think chickens are simple creatures, but I can tell you they really do have distinct and unique personalities. I really miss 'em :-(