Happy Fox
A lot of chickens have died on this property. We’ve lost a good number of hens to predation, maybe ten, perhaps fewer. A few to illness, maybe 3. A good number of chicks to whatever it is that kills a chick at just a few days old. And more than twenty from culling. Near to half a hundred at this point, and that’s in two years, with plans to kill almost thirty meat birds this summer.
It’s hard being a bird, here or anywhere. It makes me sad when they die to predators, but it’s not as though that’s any less terrifying than the day the giant unfathomable creatures that bring them food suddenly decide to hang them upside down and cut their throats.
I’m not sad because we didn’t get to sufficiently benefit from their bodies, chickens give everything to us. I’m sad because predators scare me, the suddennes of it, the chaos of it.
But I’m sure it doesn’t feel chaotic to the fox or racoon or whatever it is that keeps getting our chickens, I’m sure it feels like God’s own gentle clockwork that they can keep coming back here for a few slow birds every now and again.
The fox is a thing of dignity scraping a living out of a forest far more unforgiving than the fat landscape I enjoy. I’m sad about our chickens, but maybe I can find some gladness in the heart of that fox.