Drizzle was steady, fog seemed to hang on to the hills as the filtered sunlight lit up the morning. We ignored alarms, hangry animals, and the ticking clock, wishing for a few peaceful moments of shut eye after a night of yipping coyotes at our window which resulted in frightened children and zero sleep. But alas I had to wake up because the predators have found Melville Farms chickens and the daily battle must commence.

We were incredibly lucky for many, many years. Chickens roamed freely unchecked without a squawk out of place, but for whatever reason our luck has run out and it’s been farmer vs miscellaneous predators ever since.  We have a number of safeguards in place and plans for more, but hawks have proven to be insatiable.

Thus, a few days ago, while the laying ladies were minding their own business and a hawk hit my dining room window trying to get a chicken I had had enough. I ran outside with fury blazing in my eyes, wielding weapons and striking fear into the soul of that hawk. I felt like wonder woman, fearsome lady farmer, defender of the land! Upon reflection however I now realise that I probably looked like I normally do in real life: a fluffy-bodied-frazzled lady wearing shorts and bog boots while it’s 40 degrees outside, wielding my broom, chasing a hawk that was long gone, yelling obscenities.

We have lost at least 3 hens and a rooster to hawks now. And my broom wielding has not gone unnoticed by my critique of a toddler, neighbors and the passerby. After I was witness to a hawk boldly swoop into the coop in broad daylight and procede with predatory instincts I decided it was time for a full lock down. All but one of the laying ladies are now cooped up, much to all of our dismay, and the tree roosting Bonita refuses to accept my assistance. 

Bonita laying an egg on the front porch.