I will kill

Our sweet little girl, Peep, was killed. Her feathers were strewn across our chicken yard and lawn. It looks like a feral cat kill. Less so a 'coon or hawk.

It will die. I will kill this thing, most probably dropped off to be a 'barn cat' after the cute kitten became a robust, predatory, mean male. Hear me, city folks? Your little kitten will be blown away by my 12 gauge.

Rethink your pet management plan.

Yours kill mine, I kill yours. Code of the West.

Mother/Earth

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The dry snow of the high Cascades slanted down softly, tiny dry flakes with miniscule ice crystals sprinkled within. They clung to the trees and the sage, millions piling up to soften the harsh dusty outlines of the high desert forest.

Any deer that I might see would appear as a ghostly gray image, as if far off and insubstantial, impossible for a mere mortal hunter to kill.

The sound was almost silent, a distant hushing interrupted by muffled crackles or thumps. An alone sound.

The air was so cold going into my body that my nose and lips burned, my lungs were clearly outlined within my body by the frigid sensation of icy air deep within. I snuggled my nose and mouth into the fleece at my neck. The fleece felt like a baby blanket to me, as soft and comforting as those I had tightened around my babies.

Just then, a tiny snowflake skittered over the surface of my cheek as it floated earthward. It was dry and fluttery, reminding me of a baby's eyelashes closing near my skin.

How profoundly the journey of motherhood has altered my perceptions of every aspect of life. I feel closer to the changes, the seasons, the tiny appreciations of the Earth. She and I brought forth life, nurtured and grew it, and now continue to support and nourish it with food and water and rest time and encouragement.

I do not find it incongruous or inappropriate that I am touching motherhood in my thoughts while engaged in predatory hunting. Like the wolf, the lioness, the bird, the bobcat, like mothers the world over in all biological strata, I harvest the food that will feed my family. I feel good that it is natural, lean, free of additives. I feel gratified for seeking and bringing it home. It is part of motherhood and of a nearly forgotten circle of food and life.

A Predator Got Sweet Little Victoria

Our sweet little Old English game hen, Victoria, was killed last night by a predator.  Not eaten, not to provide food for babies, not for any good or understandable reason.  Her battered body was still in the pen, bitten and punctured, with maybe a teaspoon full of flesh missing.  Enough damage for such a tiny body to succumb.

I am filled with rage and grief and hatred.  I understand that everything has to eat.  But I live among a veritable smorgasbord of delicacies for predators, available without digging under or tearing through fencing.  But, this skunk (most likely) only wanted to kill, then take a bite or two and leave.  That's what they do.  

Last year, I placed my newly raised ring neck pheasants and quail adolescents into a large covered aviary to mature, in preparation for release.  A skunk came in the night and killed nine of them!  All it did was eat the heads off and leave.  Two nights later, he returned. This time, my 12 gauge spoke for me. 

Last night's raid produced more than one victim.  Our little rooster, Albert, was beaten up pretty badly, bloodied and scraped and missing feathers.  His comb was heavily scabbed and his breast feathers soaked with blood.  He had tried to defend his little wife.  The pen looked like a hell of a battle had occurred, blood and feathers everywhere.  As evidence of his efforts, Victoria's body was near the hole, but not drug through and taken.  He is very excitable today, and falls asleep standing up.

The pen has been relocated to a solid base, one impervious to digging predators.  For the chickens, it means not having the grass and soil and bugs beneath their feet. 

I am waiting.  I have set a live trap baited with a dead bird.  I will humanely capture the animal, and then I will blow it's fucking head off.

Hawk haunting

There is a hawk after my chickens and that pisses me off.  I am surrounded by 75 acres of field mice, snakes, little tasty crawly things, a virtual smorgasbord for predators, but this lazy guy thinks he needs my chickens.  Today, he actually was crashing into the wire on the top of a cage, trying to rip through to the tiny frightened Old English game birds two feet below.  Now, that is just rude.  Enough to make the girls quit laying,  Enough for me to fantasize about shotguns and puffs of feathers in the sky...

I know; they're protected raptors.  Ooo, be still my heart.  To me, that only means I can't shoot them when they are in my stock.  If they would stick to the fields, I would live in happy and peaceful coexistence with them.  But, no, they want fast food at the expense of my little farm.  So, I hex and curse them every day.  I give them the evil eye.  I run out, flagging my arms and calling them really bad names.  I have a little raptor voodoo doll that I stick chicken bones in.  That'll teach 'em...

(If I sound frustrated, I am.  I take my animals seriously and don't have spares or lose any lightly.  But, I am unable to defend my stock.  If a coyote, dog, feral cat, whatever threatened them, I could shoot to kill, as farmers have done for centuries.  But, not a hawk!  No, that is murder most foul!  Whatever...  (Hey--what if I just happened to be playing frisbee and one of the silly things flew right into the disc?!  I gotta think about this...)