Last weekend, we lost one of our backyard chickens, a Plymouth Rock named Chicken
Whittle. That’s her in the foreground here, the short-tailed black and white, in
a photograph I would entitle Redneck Life with Chickens if I were the kind of
person who titles her photos.
One
of my friends brought me condolence chocolate and a sweet sympathy note. Other
friends let me know how sorry they were, sending virtual hugs via Facebook.
They know that we aren’t in the livestock business here, that while we enjoy fresh
eggs, our chickens are pets, not farm animals. We coddle them and talk to them
and give them goofy names. Losing one is a personal blow, not a financial one.
Predators
don’t care one way or another, however—a chicken is a meal to them whether it
has a name or not. And that is what happened to Chicken Whittle. At three in
the morning, we heard a squawk. And that was that.
We
could recognize the culprit from the clues. This was no hawk or owl, no raccoon
or weasel. No roaming dog or cat left out all night (don’t even get me started
on the irresponsible owners behind those). This crime was swift and total, a
professional job. My husband put out the game camera, and when we reviewed the
images the next morning, we were unsurprised at what they revealed.
A
fox.
A
gray fox to be precise, Urocyon cinereoargenteus. Its specific epithet (the second part of
its scientific name) means ashen silver. Not a true fox like the red fox, it's
the only North American canid able to climb trees.
This particular specimen is healthy, which is
surprising considering that our subdivision was recently deforested, with over
sixty green acres suddenly clear-cut. Water collects in stagnant pools now,
creating breeding grounds for mosquitoes. The rabbit population took a hit, but
they are finally returning to this area, as are the deer. The great horned owls
have not been so lucky—their numbers are decreasing as they are forced to
pursue prey across dangerous highways. The barred owls are thriving, though, the
hawks too. I have even spotted a bald eagle landing right in front of my car as
I was about to turn into my driveway.
I recognize this fox is part of something
bigger than my backyard, which is inextricably linked to this larger ecosystem.
There is no point killing the fox—some other predator would simply move into
the void its death would create (that old adage about nature and vacuums being
proven correct yet again). We have decided that stronger deterrence is needed,
so my husband is installing an electric fence around the roost. Any predator
sticking its nose in the wrong place will get an unpleasant zap now, and our
remaining chicken should be safe.
I miss Chicken Whittle, and I am sad at her
demise, but I cannot hate the fox. A fox is as a fox does, to paraphrase an old
saying. But I hope that this one will look for prey elsewhere from now on, even
if it’s a beauty to behold.
* * *
Tina Whittle
writes the Tai Randolph mysteries for Poisoned Pen Press. The fifth book in
this Atlanta-based series—Reckoning and
Ruin—was released last year. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and
serves as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website
to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional
scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.
