Bad Fox

Nothing pops the Disneyland-farm-fantasy balloon like a fox going after the chickens.

It looked like this…

When I first saw the bushy-tailed rascal on our driveway, I thought, “Ooooooo, its coat is so pretty, how special to see it right here at our house!” That day, it snatched its first chicken. Not so cute anymore. As a matter of fact I went from zero (“what a sweet little fox”) to sixty (“that fox has to die”) in about 2.7 seconds. Then someone suggested that maybe it’s a fox with kits to feed. Aaaaahhhhhh, the ethical complexity! I backed down to a wishy-washy forty (“that fox better stay away, or else”).

The fox hadn’t made away clean with the first chicken, but it had definitely killed it. I suspect the chicken was in the pot at the farmhouse that night. (Did you know that “a chicken in the pot of every Frenchman” is the origin of that chicken-in-the-pot saying? Ending the cycle of famine was a goal of 16th century mercantilist King Henry IV, formally Henri de Navarre. Sorry… I’m still a recovering history teacher.)

Good dog!

Anyway, that same afternoon the fox had the temerity to come back for another chicken. This time the farm dog, Briar, valiantly chased it away. Since then we’ve been spotting it at our place, and it’s been seen skulking around the farm. The fox was in our front yard late yesterday afternoon. When I yelled at it, it took off but not up the mountain as it had before. This time it ran into the woods headed down towards the farm.

Camouflage?

I wasn’t able to raise Steve or Diane on the phone, so I dashed down to make sure the fox wasn’t poaching chickens. One chicken was in my mother’s yard squawking away, clearly sounding an alarm. I decided that I’d better stick around until one of the farm folks came home, and thus I became a chicken-herd. I stood in the driveway, the chickens pecking the ground around me and one of the farm cats, Orzo, rubbing my legs. I counted chickens as best I could. (Was that two or three in the rhododendrons?) Fortunately, the flies mobbing me were more like annoying gnats than vicious black flies. (Or are they just male black flies having a bachelor party? The males feed on nectar.) But before I pat myself on the back for providing the chickens twenty minutes of protection, I must sadly report that the fox killed a chicken in the barn last night. Bad fox.

It looked like this, only fatter…

Then there’s the fisher. It was hanging out in our driveway yesterday morning as I walked the leashed dogs down to Mount Israel Road. I still can’t believe that our excitable dog, Beau, didn’t dislocate my shoulder taking off after the creature, but I think he was as surprised as I. We all stopped, stared at each other, and then the fisher trotted off into the woods. He didn’t seem phased by us in the least. But before I got all “how cute” about it, I reminded myself that a fisher would snatch a chicken in a weasely heartbeat. Bah!

I can’t come up with any pithy, wise parting thoughts on this subject. I can say, though, that I’ve developed some empathy for Wyoming and Montana ranchers who are protesting the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone. A fine mess this all is, hard to sort out, which brings to mind an expression that my brother Peter sometimes used: Great Oogly Boogly!