Predator Problems Redux (Coyote Edition)

We always lose chickens over the winter. Always. Some years are worse than others, but on average I'd say we have about a 30% chicken attrition situation over any given winter. And some years are just terrible. This year has been a bad one so far. 

We started the fall with eleven hens. Now we have five. It's especially annoying because these hens were youthful and excellent layers. Golden sex-links that I bought in spring as pullets. This was their first laying year, and they provided us with a surfeit of delicious eggs. The second year of a hen's life is generally her most prolific, and the third and fourth years are also excellent. I was looking forward to several seasons of eggy abundance. 

We've known for some time that we have a coyote problem here.  I have seen them, in broad daylight, in the neighbor's field, and we hear them  singing on moonlight summer nights. In general, I appreciate coyotes as a savvy, adaptable animal. They are handsome too, no matter what their detractors say, with their sandy brown coats and their sly, intelligent faces. Losing a chicken here and there is the price we pay for living in this lovely rural area. I'd be sad indeed to never hear coyote song again. 

But I do draw the line at the loss of more than half our flock, and it's barely November yet. And yesterday they took a turkey - a well grown hen, who was already sold at $4/lb. Now I have to call a customer and tell  them their family will be eating store-bought turkey this thanksgiving, and that makes me mad. 

So it was with mixed emotions at best that I regarded the dead coyote that my husband brought me last week. As he was driving home in the dusky evening, he saw a coyote lying on the side of the highway just off our property; the same place that our dog Haku was hit last summer. The coyote was perfect, intact. So much so that Homero approached it cautiously in case it might actually be still alive. It wasn't, but it wasn't long dead either. Still warm. 

Homero dragged it off the verge of the highway and well into our property, for no particularly good reason. "I didn't want it to get run over into mush," he said. "Come look." 

Not having ever been close enough to a coyote to touch one before, I didn't have much of a frame of reference. Local farmers tend to greatly exaggerate the size and menace of coyotes, claiming they are larger than dogs and can drag off full grown sheep. I know that is bull-puckey. Coyotes seldom weigh more than forty pounds, and are quite a bit smaller than your average German Shepherd. This one seemed to weigh about thirty-five pounds, and was female. 

There wasn't a mark on her, apart from a little blood around her muzzle. It's been a cold fall, and her coat was thick and soft. I felt quite sorry for her. I imagined her as one of the pups I'd heard singing earlier, in summer, and that her dan had taught her where to go hunting. She probably knew us as "easy pickings farm." Nice fat chickens, if you can get across the road, look out, it's a bitch. 

Another nice thing about living in a rural area in the age of the internet: it was quite easy to find somebody who wanted to pick her up for her hide. I mean, why not, might as well salvage something beautiful from this disaster. We've lost good poultry and an intelligent animal list her life in her prime, but why shouldn't somebody salvage a nice fur? 

Homero tells me he's absolutely positively guaranteed going to patch up the chicken coop before it gets much colder. I say - as I say every year - that we won't get any more birds of any sort until he does. I know what will happen- the earth will turn and spring will come. Chicks will show up for sale under heat lamps in the farm store. We will look at our sad skinny chickens who survived winter and decide they need an infusion of new blood. We will think we have all summer long to fix the chicken coop. 

 

Accepting Responsibility (Farm Economics)

Last week, when I went out to feed the animals, I came upon a hen dangling from the cast-iron hay feeder by one leg. She had roosted on the rim for the night and had somehow slipped and wedged her leg into the V formed by two iron bars. I have no idea how long she had been hanging, but when I freed her and set her down, she could not support her weight and flopped around most miserably.

Perhaps I should have dispatched her on the spot. She is one of the older hens - at least three years old - and there is no way she is an economically viable animal. Most probably, she didn't earn her keep even before she was hurt, but I don't really keep track of who is laying well and who isn't, and as long as all chickens can fend for themselves and the flock as a whole is maintaining an average age of under 36 months, I'm happy. However, as anyone familiar with chickens knows, they are ruthless animals and will heartlessly attack any individual among them incapable of defending herself. When I set this hen down on the ground, she was instantly attacked by three or four others.

Being unwilling - or, ok, unable - to wring her neck immediately, I closed her in the Mama Barn and gave her food and water apart. She hid herself down among the bales of hay and disappeared for a week or so. Day before yesterday, she reappeared and started asserting herself, apparently wanting to get outside. So I grabbed her and put her outside, but the same thing happened. She still can't walk and the other hens attacked her mercilessly. At this point, I was ready to turn her over to Homero to be killed. She was no good as food - her injury and confinement had left her skinny as a rail fence, and she is old and tough as a boot. She'd be a total waste; the only reason to kill her would be to put her out of her pain.

But then my sister-in-law, Temy, asked to see her. Temy is a doctor. She isn't a vet. But nonetheless, she is perfectly competent to examine the animal and say - as she did - that the leg isn't broken and that she should heal, given time.

Dammit. What to do now? I really wanted to say "Oh what the hell. She'll never be the same; she'll always be lame and weak, probably the other chickens will always pester and torment her, and she's old and hasn't got many eggs left in her. Just kill her already, and throw her to the dogs." But of course I didn't. I took her and put her in the rabbit hutch near the house. I am feeding her specially and separately every day. I am bringing her clean straw and changing her water. I am doing this, I fully admit, only in order not to seem like a monster to my Mexican relatives. That's really weird, because in most respects, they are far less sentimental and far more practical than we Americans when it comes to animals.

Here's what I wrote about that a while ago: Mexicans don't have farm animals as pets. In fact, they barely have pets at all. Seriously. I know there are a few here and there, but I feel totally confident in saying that in general, dogs are guard animals; cats are rat-catchers; burros are pack animals; and everything else is food. ( Question for People Who Kill Their Own Meat)

Now all of a sudden I find myself on the other side of that equation: I'm the soulless bad guy who has dollar signs in her eyes, and they are the ones arguing for compassion and mercy. Okay, that's projection. I know if I had actually said "I just don't think there's any point in keeping this hen alive" they would have said "Sure, you're right" and no-one would have given it a second thought. It's all me. It's I who have to get used to the idea that I have taken on responsibility for the life and death of some thirty other beings - chickens, goats, horses, dogs and cats. I'm still wrestling with this, apparently, after four years.

It's not about money. It's not about food. It's not about necessity - not yet, anyway. It's about this - me being the deciding force for the lives of my animals. If I'm hungry, they die. If I decide they aren't "worth it" they die. If I want what they have - meat, skin, feathers, milk, eggs, offspring - I take it and they lose. I am the power. I am the MAN. I take and they give.

Yeah yeah yeah, I also give and they also take. I give shelter, food, medicine, protection from predators, et cetera. In fact they wouldn't even exist if I hadn't decided they be born. Blah blah blah. That all smacks of rationalization. Here's the fact: I am a peak predator and I reap where I choose. I like meat, and I like milk and I like eggs.

Given that fact (given: wow, that's a big given, isn't it? Let's just sweep right over that) where is my responsibility? What do I actually owe this hen? Life or death? What is the more moral course; to kill her when she begins to suffer and salvage what I can from her existence (she would feed the dogs, after all), or to expend a modicum of extra energy keeping her alive, albeit in a cage, at a reduced level of existence? What for, if she can't integrate back into the flock? I'm making an assumption here that a chicken can even tell the difference between a "natural" life as a member of a flock and as a solitary being in a cage. I do assume that a chicken CAN tell the difference and that she "prefers" a more natural, free range life. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I just want an excuse to kill a chicken that causes me trouble and time.

I don't think so though. I'm pretty sure a chicken does experience some sort of reduced existence separated from the flock and confined to a cage. I see chickens interacting with each other every day. Okay, it's getting late and I'm getting tired and I haven't come to any conclusions. Part of me says why are you even wasting so much time trying to be fair to a chicken? Do what makes your life easier, as long as it doesn't involve increased cruelty. Damn, what is the BFD here?

Part of me says puzzle it out, make sure that whatever you decide to do you are doing because you feel it is right, not because it is easy. At the end of the day, that's what matters, right? What matters is not the life of an individual chicken, but that I have lived according to my principles. Goddamn it, that strikes me as a problematic statement. I don't like the way that statement feels. But I think I'm going to have to leave it for another day.

Right now, friends and neighbors, I am leaving questions of morality and ethics behind, in favor of another beer and a little time with my husband before I fall asleep. Let that stand as my final expression of my personal ethics.

Chick Update

Still only the same three chicks. The two hens have abandoned the nests now, so there won't be any more. I'm afraid I may have committed an error in moving two hens and two nests into the mama barn: although I gave each hen a live chick and put their nests as far apart as possible, now both hens are trying to cover all three chicks. The chicks don't seem to have a preference at this point but I assume they will soon imprint on one or the other, and then what?

Trade Network Week Seven and Delicious Chicken

I don't know what week it is. But today the Kale Fairy gave me two heads of red leaf lettuce, a gallon sized ziploc bag of mixed salad greens, one of chard, and two of kale (one cavolo nero and one curly purple). Also, about seven turnips, two small heads of fennel, a big bunch of red carrots, and the most gargantuan bunch of italian flat leaf parsley I've ever seen. 

The fennel went into a lovely supper of my version of chicken cacciatore (well, it varies. This was tonight's version):

4 chicken thighs with skin and bone

1 fat yellow onion

2 small or one regular head of fennel

3 cloves garlic

1 tsp. fennel seeds

1 tsp rosemary leaves

olive oil

1 cup white wine (I used Columbia Crest Sauvignon Blanc - delicious)

2 cans diced tomatoes

In a fair amount of olive oil, brown chicken thighs skin side down over pretty high heat. Flip. Give it a couple minutes and remove to a plate. In same skillet, cook onion, cut into ribbons, and fennel, same. When onion is wilted, add garlic and spices. Then pour in wine. Scrape with a spatula. Replace chicken. Add tomatoes. Turn and mix. Cover and simmer for half an hour or more, until chicken is easily shreddable. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve with french bread and the rest of the wine. 

Yummy.

Second Attempt at Chicken Cooking

Last summer, we killed and cooked four chickens, all at once. There was a reason for that, but I'm not going to recap. It's on the blog. What's important now is that those chickens were terrible. I mean really inedibly bad. They were so bad it made me wonder why on earth anyone ever decided chickens were good to eat, if this is what mature, free-range birds taste like. 

The main issue was the toughness. I boiled the living hell out of those chicken, literally for HOURS, trying to get them to soften up, but they never did. In fact, I'm pretty sure they started getting tougher after a couple of hours. The meat remained stringy and rubbery. And, when we managed to force some into our mouths, tasteless, too. 

The broth was good, though. I froze the broth and gave the carcasses to the dogs. 

Today, we dispatched the egg-eating hen (what a disgusting process). She just so happens to be the mother of the chickens we killed last summer, so she is even older and, I suspect,  even tougher. But this time, I have a tool I didn't have before: a pressure cooker. 

Basically, I'm just making stock. Mexican style chicken stock: one chicken, one onion, two or three cloves of garlic, three allspice berries, three cloves, a stick of cinnamon, a teaspoon of cumin, black peppercorns, and plenty of salt. But I'm pressurizing it on 15-20 pounds for an hour.

THEN we'll see if that chicken is still tough!

Bad Dog

See this dog? Isn't he cute? Oh, such a sweet, friendly dog, so innocent butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. In his big, hairy, evil, chicken-crunching mouth. He ate a tiny baby chick today. A tiny defenseless chick only a few weeks old. Damn dog! This dog is a problem. He's killed several chickens now; he still chews up everything in sight; he barks incessantly; he jumps on little kids and knocks them over; he eats off the table; he apparently cannot be trained. He's cute allright, I'll give him that, but if he eats one more chicken he's history.

Sooooooeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Unexpectedly, we got a new pig today. Well, the pig wasn't entirely unexpected, just his arrival today. Our first pig, you may remember, was a trade from Craigslist; I answered a post from a couple looking for a cattle chute, since I just happened to have one rusting gently away in the back field. They traded me a piglet. 

That pig turned out to be so delicious, even if he was a bit of a butt, that we decided we'd get another piglet from the same folks again. Great people, real serious homesteaders. They built their home from the ground up, lived without electricity for two years, raising two babies at the same time. They have a little bit of everything: cows, pigs, turkeys, you name it. He's a fireman and she's a farmer. And a knockout. They're the kind of couple that makes me feel genetically inferior, they're that handsome, hardworking, and nice. 

Anyway, L. called me this morning and let me know they were coming up today and would we like them to bring the pig a bit early? He can eat and drink from a pan, he's basically weaned, but it would be nice if I were to give him some goat's milk for a week two still. Okay, sure!

I had to run to the farm store for pig starter and a hook and eye for the door to the pig pen (because the goats push it open. They like to lie down in the shade on that side of the barn.), but that's easy. 

Right, like anything is easy on the farm. It slipped my mind that Iris, the Nubian, can open simple latches like hooks and eyes. The pig is so tiny, if he gets out of his pen he can slip right under the gate and then we'd have another escaped animal situation and I doubt the neighbors would be quite so understanding this time around. I can just imagine that piglet rooting up Mrs. J's  vegetable garden. It would make the damage the chickens did look like....chickenfeed. 

Good thing there were two hooks and eyes in the package; I put them in going opposite ways and I think that will frustrate the goat.

But only that one goat. The others just jump the fence. The poor pig wasn't able to eat any of his food. The goats are single-minded about eating the pig food. It must be delicious. I was whaling on them with a switch and they didn't even care. I think I'm going to have to lock them in the barn while I feed the pig, just until he is able to defend his own food, which shouldn't be too long. They grow pretty fast.

Oh yes, and my sister is gifting me some more chickens this evening. Just three. Not so many, really. They don't even replace the ones we ate a few days ago. Tried to eat. Okay, the dogs ate them. 

Runaway Chickens: The Final Chapter

After our neighbor brought back the two chickens a few days ago, I thought we had them all. There was the one we caught ourselves; the one they brought back and which escaped again; then the two they brought back together. That makes three. I had seen a big pile of brown feathers, and I hadn't seen any more chickens, so I thought they were all accounted for. 

Not quite. Yesterday evening, the neighbor brought back the last hen. What an incredibly nice man. I was mortified by the whole incident, and asked what I could give him for the trouble he'd taken. Did he like goat cheese?

No, he hated goat cheese. Grew up with goats. His wife liked it, but no need, no need. No big deal. Just chickens. Then he asked if we'd like him to come over with his big tractor and mow the small field so we could put up the hay. Well, hell, sure we would. Then he chatted for a while with Homero about welding, then he climbed in his truck and drove off.

After a couple of minutes thought, I decided I just couldn't leave it alone. I grabbed some of the chevre I made on Friday, and which turned out terrific, and a big ham steak from the freezer and ran over there. "If you won't take anything for catching the chickens, please take this for mowing the small field. I felt awful about the whole chicken thing and I didn't know what to do when I couldn't catch them. They won't come back, I promise, we're going to kill them tomorrow." He said "Well, thank you. It's okay."

This morning he was here at 8 am mowing the small field. 

He kept his word; we kept ours. 

I was canning beets this morning (lovely lovely beets given to me by my friend Marissa) so I had an excuse, albeit weak; Homero did the actual killing. He showed me how to pluck them. You just dip them in boiling hot water and then the feathers come right off, mostly. You only have to tug a little, on the wings where the feathers are strong. He gave me the plucked chickens to gut; but I confess, I couldn't do it. Part of the problem was the lack of a good cleaver, but I can't blame it entirely on that. I just didn't want to stick my hand in there with all the guts. Then I sliced open the craw by mistake and all the grain came out, and I went and told Homero I'd finish plucking, he had to gut.

There were two whole, fully formed and hard-shelled eggs inside the hens. 

We decided to cook all the birds at once because plunging them in hot water had half-cooked the outer layer of flesh. As I speak, there is a giant kettle of chicken stock on the stove, just coming to a simmer. We invited Homero's partner Juan and his family up and we're going to have a big mole feast. I'm very proud that almost everything in the feast (except the rice) will be either produced on the farm or traded for locally. 

Welcome Alpacas, Welcome Back Chickens

Austin looks unimpressed at meeting Iris.

It's been raining today, good for my garden, but unfortunate for the alpacas, who are too timid to enter the barn. They look very wet and very cold, having just been sheared, but I can't either entice them or chase them into the barn, where the scary scary goats are. Alpacas are incredibly timid. It's like having a herd of wild antelope out there. I hope they go into the barn at night, because it's going to be quite cold tonight. 

Linda from Lost River brought them over about 11 am. this morning. What an incredibly generous lady. She gave us Austin's recently sheared fleece, all seven or eight pounds of it. She didn't have to do that, I certainly wasn't expecting it, and it's quite valuable. Rowan was ecstatic. Of course, it hasn't been processed yet (Rowan will do that) and it hasn't been spun (we'll find somebody to do that), but it is as soft as a cloud and absolutely beautiful silvery white. I gave her some chevre and some cajeta to take home, as well as gas money for transporting them. 

While she was here, my neighbor's son came over in his truck and told me he'd caught a rooster and a hen and they were in a cage under the cherry tree at his mom's house, if I could kindly go and pick them up. Which I very promptly did. So now I have three of the four escaped chickens locked tightly in the small barn. I told Homero that the time had come to dispatch them as soon as possible. He tried to tell me "oh no, they're too skinny, we have to fatten them up first" but I know he's just trying to get out of killing them. So I told him either he kills them by this weekend or I take matters into my own hands. I just can't risk them escaping again. We have to live with these neighbors forever; I'm not going to let a few stupid chickens jeopardize our relationship.

What, me kill them? Heck no. I'd find a chicken processor.