Out of Control

 Friday I was reminded that I am not in control of what goes on around me. I got home about seven in the evening from a graduation party. I had gone there straight from the office (with some bends and turns on the country roads). My wife, Rhonda, had left the farm about four in the afternoon to help at the same party. So for about three hours the place was left to the whims and ways of wildlife.

When I got home it was quiet, too quiet (setting the stage), so I walked to the barnyard to get a lay of the land. Olivia, our regular cat, was acting nervous as she greeted me in the driveway. We have another cat, Bell, that calls the farm home, but she is frequently gone, and two other cats who aren’t ours but appreciate the amenities and concierge service.

Olivia stood with her legs slightly bent, ears swiveling and head turning back and forth as she was trying to determine if it was safe to be out in the open. There were no chickens moving about – which was unusual. So I went in to the barn and found the converted horse stall empty of birds but plenty of feathers were scattered about.

When I went outside I found four dead birds, two injured ones and one large pile of feathers minus the chicken. If you are keeping score at home, that’s seven birds – not a large flock mind you, but one that was appreciated, especially by Rhonda.

All the birds had the same single bite mark on their back; hiding near each other in the tall grass of the pasture I found a pair of matching black ones badly injured. I carried the two to the barn and shut the “chicken door.”

The chicken door, about eight by nine inches is designed (with obvious flaws) to let the chickens roam in and out, while keeping large predators out. I secure the door every night after they are inside roosting, and Rhonda lets them out in the morning.

I considered the predator possibilities: The bear that had been roaming the southern metro area was too big and had been shot (I don’t know why they didn’t use a dart gun and put it to sleep). The neighbors’ horses were also too large and not likely to change their stripes from herbivore to carnivore. The middle of the day seemed to rule out the night beasts, and the bite marks suggested a dog, or like-jawed creature that chases and kills for sport.

Grabbing my rifle, I walked the wooded pasture, thinking I might find something. When my shoes were sufficiently wet, I went back to the house and sat on the front steps to ponder the situation. As the sun began to set, the mosquitoes drove me inside. I set my rifle down in the garage and waited for Rhonda to come home to give her the news of the day.

  

Within a few minutes I heard a noise outside similar to that of injured rabbit. Thinking that Oliva had caught one, I went outside to investigate.  Fifteen yards away, Olivia was crouched very low in the grass beneath a dying apple tree. Fifteen yards beyond her, standing in the yard making an awful yelping-crying sound was a coyote. It hadn’t moved when I opened the door, it had not moved when I walked towards it, and it did not move when I eased my revolver from its holster. Wishing I had my rifle instead of my .38, I fired and missed; the coyote bolted across the field untouched by the remaining four shots.

I don’t know if this was the predator or not, and I am getting mixed reviews from my hunting friends. Perhaps it was coming back for another bird. About three on Monday morning I woke to the same rhythmical, wheezing cry outside my bedroom window.

The wily animal had come back again. I went outside to answer the challenge but I did not find it. For now I will secure the gates and fence as best I can, but wildlife by its very definition is beyond my control.