The fox and the chickens

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

Just the other day as I was driving down the creek road, a beautiful red fox darted out from the woods. I braked just as the sleek creature ran under my car. I heard the thud and cringed as I looked in the rear-view mirror. It was not good.

The running creature had turned into a limp pile of red fur. I felt a real sadness that lingered.

Over the past several days, between scattered rains, we have been working on our list of unfinished farm chores. I slowly began to forget about the fox.

Greg ran the woven wire fence around the pasture, pulling it tight between the posts. Then he put up the gates. I pulled the hand-held cultivator between the rows of pumpkins and squash, and broke up the crusty soil around the tomato and pepper starts with my trusty garden weasel.

I planted iris bulbs, given to me by a friend, along the stone wall that runs beside the driveway up to the cabin. We began to feel as though we were making real progress on our list of chores, and as a reward, or perhaps because I was a bit tired, we decided to treat ourselves to dinner up town.

As we headed back down to the creek, shortly before dark, we knew that the solar-powered door would soon be closing the chickens safely inside their house. We were in no rush, and turned into the gravel drive in front of the old tobacco barn under a brilliant darkening blue sky.

My eye caught on a bright white patch at the edge of the garden. My breath caught, and I pointed. Greg stopped the car as the words "Oh no" blurted out of my mouth.

There, half buried in the soft garden soil was a mound of ever-so white feathers. We ran over to the mound and saw two perfect yellow chicken feet sticking awkwardly out of the dark garden soil. The partially covered bird was quite dead.

As we stood and stared in sad wonder, we heard the alarm call of our rooster up by the cabin. We took off running up the hill and got to the top just in time to see a large red fox darting across the yard and into the woods beyond. I looked around the yard. Four piles of scattered feathers stood out against the lush green of the freshly mowed field, red, white, grey, and brown. No chicken bodies. Just the feathers. Only the rooster strutted about. No live chickens in sight.

We began to search the edges of the woods, and I called to my girls. Slowly our 13 remaining birds came back out into the field. The last that we found were our four youngest white birds, huddled together on the branch of a tree in the goat yard. We got a ladder and climbed up to retrieve the white birds and place them in their secure coop.

As I carried them under my arm I stroked their soft feathers and wondered what they had seen and how they had known to survive while the others had not.

While I raked up the feathers, Greg took the garden chicken's body down to the creek to bury it.

It was almost dark, but as Greg walked back up the hill, he saw the curious sight of the bold fox running down the hill with our rooster held tight in his jaws. The big bird was flapping his wings and trying to fight back.

Greg ran toward the rooster, waving his arms and shouting. The fox dropped the rooster, then grabbed him up again. Greg kept running at the fox and shouting and the rooster got away for a second time only to be grabbed again. Four times this happened until finally the fox gave up and ran off into the woods.

The fox might be bold, but our rooster is a tough creature. He was missing most of his tail feathers and had a wound on his back, but with a bit of purple antiseptic spray he seems to be doing fine.

I think that perhaps he is a bit embarrassed, though, with his purple plumage. I can hear him calling his morning call as I type. I smile to hear him. Our farm world would certainly be far more quiet without his proud presence, strutting big and white across the green grass, keeping an eye on his flock as they peck at this and chase chicken-like after that.

The remaining birds seem to have all settled back into their regular routines. And me? My perspective on the beautiful red fox has changed, just a bit. I am ready for his return.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.