Coyotes

It was Tuesday, my husband and I had let the chickens into the yard, fed them, the dogs, the cat and ourselves, and he had just left with our older German Shepherd for a trip down to the city to return some items at the store, which was about 30 miles away. Having time to myself, I had our younger dog, Suzy, who looks like a small Doberman but mixed with something else, in the house with me while I sorted through paperwork and goofed off on the computer.

Both dogs know that when the chickens make a certain type of noise, I bolt out of my chair and run for the deck to see what's wrong. It's an alarm call the chickens make and the dogs now alert bark when they do it because they know I respond to it.

Suzy heard the birds before I did. She alert barked, I bolted for the deck and then we both saw the coyote standing on the opposite side of the chicken yard scaring the birds on the inside. The chicken yard is a massive affair at least 75 feet wide and easily 20 feet deep. It stands about 40 feet downhill from the house which means the coyote was close to 60 if not 70 feet from the back deck which is 20 feet up in the air.

Taking it upon herself, Suzy tore down the steps before I could stop her and ran towards the coyote barking and prepared to chase. Fortunately for her, the coyote gave up his prey easily and turned to run through the brush and trees towards our pond and then the neighbors heavily brushed property. He/she was joined by a second coyote I had not seen, flushed out by Suzy and she managed to chase both of them off as I whistled for her to come back before they turned and attacked her.

She responded after the coyote were off the property and came back to the house where she was rewarded with a cookie. However we were both too pumped with adrenaline to go back inside so we put up a guard on the deck while I called my husband to find out how and where his rifles were. He didn't respond because his phone was dead so I called his hunting buddy and asked how to fire a .22 guage rifle because that's the one that was readily available. Guns are not the same, this rifle was much older than many newer ones and did not operate the same way. I set it aside being familiar enough with weaponry to know that if you can't figure it out, guns are not something to be messed with. Never fingering the trigger I hoped I looked menacing to the coyotes.

My husband came home and the next day took me out to suggest options in riflery for what I had in mind. We went out on the back deck, put the dogs inside, and had demo lessons in operating the .22 which we did not shoot because it is such a powerful and deadly gun, and the shotgun, which he did allow me to shoot because the BBs can wound up close but only sting at a distance (so he explained). There was talk between him and his hunting buddy of filling the loads with corn starch to lessen the kick of the rifles but that's not what I shot off. Demonstrating the checking of chambers, safety mechanisms, pump action, and loading techniques, he chambered a round, directed my aim down the hill (away from the chickens) and told me to fire. I was aiming for an open space between an oak and a pine tree. The rifle kicked as I pulled the trigger and a small branch was amputated from an oak tree. I told him I wasn't aiming for the oak tree, he explained firing patterns for buckshot. We both looked up and circling overhead we counted 30 buzzards in flight. They roost in our pine trees, the loud return from the rifle caused them to take flight. I had no idea we had so many buzzards.

He went on to explain that while he was gone for 2 weeks he felt I'd be better off with the shotgun since if I shot the coyote what would I do with the carcass. I was watching the buzzards and pointed up. "They could probably take care of it." I suggested.

He got a concerned expression in his eyes, "I'm more worried about you shooting one of the dogs accidentally."

That sobered me up. Good point. I eyed the gun, heard the whining of our German Shepherd who does not like gun fire (a neighbor up the hill shoots practice loads into the hillside and she cowers when he does). "Real good point."

"What about an air horn?" I asked. "Wouldn't that accomplish the same thing?"

My husband was busy ejecting loads, emptying chambers and clearing his rifle. He shrugged.

"You might spook them."

When my father-in-law came home from traveling, a retired shipwright, I told him about the coyotes and asked him if he knew where I could find an airhorn. He explained that it's a Coast Guard requirement to have a horn of some kind on your vessels so I might try a boat shop.

I live near 3 lakes, over one hundred miles from the ocean, I didn't think the people on the boats up here minded Maritime Law much. I asked where I might find a boat shop with those kinds of supplies and he said that since I work in a county close to inland harbors, I should try a boat shop there. I had also heard of kids saying they used them as horns in their cars so maybe WalMart had them in their auto section.

My husband left his shotgun accessible and it was nice to know that if the coyotes didn't scare easily with the air horn I could at least drag it out and sting their pelts a little.

I thought I heard a buzzard say go for the .22 since dead meat was dead meat and he wasn't picky...coyote, dog, chicken...

Haven't seen the buzzards up in the trees since firing the shotgun. But then they've predicted a bad wind storm so maybe they've vacated for rockier, sturdier perches.

Wile E. Coyote

Introduction: My husband and I were both born and raised in suburbia. We raised our son in suburbia. As we approached midlife we decided to slow our pace down by moving to the country. We’ve had a goat, but it was stolen. We are learning how to raise chickens and sharing the laughter of the learning process. This is our latest misadventure.

Wile E. Coyote

I walk around shell-shocked.

Three weeks ago I lost my 14-pound Black Jersey Giant rooster, Elvis, to a daylight attack by coyote, fox, or dog (not mine). That morning I had just sold at auction four roosters of Bantam mixes that I didn't want. I was now down to one rooster. I looked at my flock of 22 Black Giant hens that were to be bred to Elvis and wanted to cry. My remaining rooster was a hen-pecked, Americana mix that had a tail protruding from his plucked rump resembling an old feather duster. I sighed. I wanted Elvis…but so did the wildlife.

It being August, most hatcheries were stopping their shipments of baby birds. I found one hatchery in Missouri who was still shipping in what is called "Straight Run" or "non-sexed" assortments. This means a mix of unspecified proportions of male and female. But they called back within a day and said "no more this year".

What was I going to do with 22 Black Jersey Giant hens? Besides sell their eggs?

I wanted a rooster, but everyone was settling in for the winter and not really selling their stock or what they had, had already been sold. I found a hatchery in Florida that was auctioning off a batch of 25 straight run Black Jersey Giant chicks. Going directly to the seller I ordered a batch and was notified they would email me when the order was shipped. I looked at my yard full of chickens and asked myself, “What am I going to do with 25 more chickens?” Buyer’s remorse was setting in.

On the following Monday we received a phone call telling us that a shipment of chicks was waiting for us at the post office. No email had been sent. We were in some shock. We already had some 2 month old Australorps in the brooders so it was just a matter of adding a second water dish and more food dishes. I sighed. I was internally battling myself over the need for a rooster and having to spend 6 months raising these birds to see if we got one. Looking at the baby chicks I asked myself why did I need a rooster? For more chicks? The chicks peeped and fell over on their faces, jumped and pecked at the walls of their bin.

Hah! I resigned myself to raising more chicks.

Friday morning around 2 am I heard strange noises outside the bathroom window. It was a barking/grunting noise that sounded like barking squirrels...foxes? coyotes? I flashed a light towards the chicken runs from my bedroom window. (Yeah, those roosters woke us up in the morning!) All the doors were secure. I shined it towards the dog run where we had some juvenile hens safely locked away. No big bodies in there, gate was secured. Maybe it was just gophers destroying my vegetable garden. Bastards. I wasn't going out at 2 in the morning to shoo them away, and I wasn't going to wake my husband up who had his first job in several months scheduled early the next morning. I lay down and went back to sleep.

The next morning as the crew arrived to load up trucks I awoke with thoughts of the previous night's noises on my mind. I needed to investigate who had been up to what before my husband left in case there was something freaky I would need him to fix or pursue (broken garden fencing, gophers sticking their tongues out at me, dead deer carcasses...)

Outside my bathroom window was a pile of feathers.

Uh-oh.

My husband had let the chickens out already and I went to the kennel where the five juveniles were. I counted only four.

I made my way to the crew who were in the front yard and heard my husband who had cut through the house in the back yard. I turned around and joined him there as he looked in the kennel.

"Where's the Rhode Island Red?" I asked referring to one of our adolescent pullets. I suspected where she was, I was in denial about where she was, I was hoping he’d seen her somewhere else.

He said she usually finds a way out of the kennel and then comes back in the morning.

My heart fell into my toes. I indicated he should follow me and pointed to the pile of feathers by our bathroom window. He frowned and indicated across the yard where more feathers were. I told him about the noises I'd heard last night. He frowned and said it didn't look like the Rhode Island's feather color, this must be a separate bird he concluded.

We then proceeded to the vegetable garden, a short distance away from the pin feather incrimination, only to find that our carefully constructed gopher proof vegetable box had indeed been raided by a gopher...or a vole. Bastards!

The watermelon that was growing on the vine was fine but the gophers had attacked the vine and my husband pulled up the gray limp plant. I brought the watermelon in to ripen it.

An hour later, after my husband had left, I received a call from my mail carrier. "We have 25 baby chicks here for you."

This is when the numbness set in. "You do?" I croaked.

"You sound surprised. Were you expecting them?" She asked pleasantly.

"No." I answered still feeling numb. I looked in the garage where my batch of 24 (2 died within a day of arriving) chicks were cheeping and eating and sleeping.

"Well, it's best if you come down and pick them up." She advised.

"Okay." I respond meekly.

My state of mind was so distracted that I left the house with the dogs still outside, which I never do because they go right under fencing and are basically loose. I went straight to the jobsite where my husband was working, only to see him drive by me in his truck, loaded down with construction debris. He waved, I stuttered, and he kept going.

I managed to track him to the local gas station where he came up to me as I got out of the car and asked "what's wrong?"

I guess my puzzled expression and blank face was a give away.

I actually had difficulty telling him that there were 25 baby chicks waiting for me to pick up at the post office. I couldn't even think how funny a situation this was. Once I got it out he looked at me blankly. "25?"

I nodded. Or I think I nodded, maybe I said yes, it doesn't matter. Animal lover that he is he said, "well you can't leave them there, they'll die. Better pick them up."

He also advised me to get another waterer, feeder, and bin to hold them all. Maybe the feed store would know what to do with them.

I went to the post office, picked up the loudly cheeping birds, and turned to leave. People in the post office smiled at me saying "we know what you've got, baby chicks how cute!" and one old man said, "They still ship those that way? We used to use baby chicks as bait for sharks." He smiled fondly at the memory. I asked "what kind of sharks?"

"Sand sharks" and he explained the process for tying the chick onto the line which in my numbness went in one ear and out the other.

"Isn't that nice?" I mumbled as more people paused to admire my cheeping box.

A woman called from across the parking lot "I know what you have!"

I said, "Would you like to buy some?"

She asked what kind and I answered "an accidental double shipment of Black Jersey Giants."

Her eyebrows rose. "Accidental? Aren't they cute!"

She laughed; I smiled carrying my box to my car.

The feed store explained to me that they couldn't sell chicks in their store due to health concerns and chicken diseases but if we wanted to hang flyers they would be more than happy to help us place some and did I want some chick food?

I walked away from there with a new feeder, a new waterer, a new chick bin, and went home. I didn't bother with a bag of chick food, since I had some at home.

I unpacked and looked at my 50 baby chicks and didn't see the bouncing cute puff balls that they were but the large birds they would become, examples of which were in my poultry yard clucking away right now. Twenty-two of them.

Two separate people had said that with the coyote attacks and the large number of birds I already have that I'm sponsoring wildlife "all you can eat buffet".

I'm still feeling a little numb.

That night after realizing the Rhode Island Red was definitely gone (the Coyote must've eaten the evidential red feathers) we moved the kennelled adolescent birds to the solid chicken houses.

That night when the coyote came he dug up my other watermelon and my cucumber plant.

I haven’t seen anymore gopher mounds in my vegetable garden.

The next night my young dog decided to pursue an interesting new smell. Believing she and my shepherd could chase off the coyote, and that they must need to go out for personal reasons, I let them out. After several washings at 10:30 at night she still has a trace of skunk smell on her face.

It takes 24 hours for a skunk to recover enough scent to spray again. I heard a coyote off in the distance causing the neighbor dogs to sound the alarm. I thought I knew what the coyote would be eating for dinner that night. I almost felt sorry for the skunk.