R.I.P. Chickens: A Harsh Reality

When I first got chickens, I knew at some point they would die.  I knew that while they could live at least four or five years, their egg production starts slowing after a year of laying and quickly declines.  While it’s sad to say, they end up outliving their usefulness and suddenly become more productive as food themselves.  While I wasn’t looking forward to their eventual death, I knew it was inevitable.  I had been hoping to solicit the help of one of the Honduran guys that I work with (who grew up with chickens and had no problem with killing them) to do the deed.

Fortunately, I never had to ask my friends and coworkers if they could help me out with this dilemma.  However, what happened was much worse.  A few nights ago I went to go give my chickens fresh water, refill their feed dish, and collect some eggs.  It was getting to be dusk and the lighting obviously wasn’t great.  What I saw was something I never thought I’d see.  The first thing I noticed was that there were feathers everywhere.   After searching the pen area I noticed what was left of one of my chickens – no distinguishable body parts.   I looked inside in disbelief as the scene was almost identical inside the coop.  More feathers everywhere, and another body in the same shape as the first.  It was getting dark, and I knew there weren’t any live chickens so I headed back to the house with the still full pail of water – in shock.

I was shaken.  I knew that the chickens were dead, and it was my fault.  I was their caretaker, and I failed to fully protect them against predators.  The next day I returned to clean up the crime scene, but only found one body.  The  other had been taken in the night – presumably by the same predator who initially killed them.  I took out all the straw, cleaned up everything, got rid of as many feathers as I could, and laid out all new straw.  I found where I believe the predator, probably a raccoon, entered, and made sure he could never get in again.  I made sure all of the spots where the fence overlapped were tied together snuggly, with no chance of another break in.

I set a trap that night with anchovies as the bait as Abby and I had leftovers of a tin in the fridge & was on the verge of going bad so I figured why not.  The next morning I didn’t notice anything in the trap from the window and was late to work so I never checked it.  At work my father asked me if I caught the raccoon, and asked what I used for bait.  I told him no, and that I used anchovies to which he quipped ‘What do you have Italian raccoons?’  Two hours later, when I returned home to get something I forgot, I checked the cage and sure enough there was a very large (apparently Italian) raccoon inside.  While I initially wanted to kill him in vengeance, I realized he’s just trying to survive, too.  I relocated him to a heavily wooded area.

The Likely Perpetrator

While the loss of my chickens was a shocking sight, it was a reminder that ultimately I was their caretaker and their lives depended on me.  I am confident that my new precautions against intrusion will keep everything out of the enclosure, and in my next post I will write about my six new feathery friends that are living in it.

Tagged as: backyard chickens, chickens, raccoons, suburban chickens