A Humorous True Tale of Terror in a Southern Chicken Coop
Daddy worked as a firefighter most of my life. His shift was a 24/48, which meant that he worked 24 hours and was off for 48. You could pretty well bet that if something adventurous or creepy or dangerous was going to interrupt our rural rhythm, it would be sometime during the night of those 24 hours when daddy was at the station. Goat going into labor with breech twins? Drunken redneck threatening the lives on the ol’ Poss Road? From bobcats to possums to tornadoes we had it all . . . while daddy was away.
But the most memorable and dramatic of all was the fox. We had lived on Pleasant Places Farm for a couple of years and accrued a collection of animals including dairy goats (long before they were cool and trendy), Aqua Pig, Grunt Runt, Ebony the dog, several ill-tempered rabbits, and a flock of chickens including Mr. Crow, the meanest rooster to ever walk planet earth. The chickens are the unfortunate main players in this particular drama.
Every night for a solid two weeks, at the same dread hour, some varmint had circled through and dined on a warm chicken dinner. We were well aware of when it happened thanks to the keening wail of the coop mates. Night after night, bird by bird, our little flock dwindled until fear was struck into the hearts of the egg lovers in our family. Daddy was determined to put a stop to the poultry Masada by lying in wait for the predator. It didn’t show. Every night Daddy would wait up ‘til the killing hour (sometime around 3 AM) there would be peace in the coop. But as sure as the dawn, that fox would reek havoc of feet and feathers whenever Daddy slept.
Then came the fateful night. Daddy was at work.
Anxiety filled the coop thick as the smell fresh chicken manure.
Midnight: all’s quiet.
1 AM: Peace.
2 AM: stillness.
3 AM: ALARM!!!
“Mama! I hear the fox!” the cry rang from my younger brother’s voice!
“Jeremy, your dad has waited out there night after night, I really don’t think I’ll be able to run out fast enough and get it.”
But we must try, of course.
Mama grabbed her .22 and handed a flashlight to Jeremy, who was about 9 years old at the time.
“Come on,” Mama said. “We’ll see, but it’s going to be gone by the time we get out there.”
Into the darkness the two of them went. There was still a ruckus in the coop, so it seemed like there was a chance that the vixen was still feasting and tormenting its victim. The plan was solid. Jeremy would barely crack open the door to the chicken house and stick the flashlight inside whereupon my mom would poke the barrel of the pistol through the aforementioned crack and commence firing upon anything that moved. Hopefully the shells would find their target in something covered with fur rather than feathers, but you know, sometimes there are friendly fire casualties of war.
Suddenly, mama lamented, “I dropped the bullets! We have to find them! I think . . . wait, did they go in the puddle? Agh!”
Inside the house, I, the mature 10-year-old, grabbed a couple more bullets and ran out to the barn in my nightgown and rubber boots.
There was a hot stillness. The anticipation was so high, you almost expected a tumbleweed at any moment. If fox wasn’t coming out, mama was going in after him.
Somewhere between loading the bullets and opening the door, the plan shifted slightly where mom would actually take a tiny peek inside before opening fire. The fox was curled up in the corner, right across from the door, right in front of the stacked stone foundation. Not to worry, though, mama wasn’t deterred at all by the thought of ricocheting bullets. That fox was going down. Shots were fired in the night.
I don’t remember how many times she unloaded on that old varmint, but when he came out of there, it was because he was dragged. Fortunately, no further chickens or children were harmed because of bullets bouncing around the place. Lest you feel sorry for the fox for reasons like never having raised chickens, let me just tell you that he was quite ill. I’m not sure if he had mange or rabies or both, but his tail was naked, and he was grossly thin despite his recent diet of fresh poultry. Paw’s 30-06 sent him to the great forest in the sky, or maybe fox hell. I’m not sure which.