Of Bobcats and Chickens
Snowball recovered from her crop issue, but I was still recovering from the month and a half of her vet visits and medication applications when both French Morans and one Lavender Orpinton—Duchess—decided to go broody. They sat in the nesting boxes, stubbornly refusing to be moved, although not laying any eggs. Their hormones had elevated them into the stubborn loftiness of hatching mode. Their consequent irritability and moodiness causes upset throughout the flock. We found only one egg a day, if that, for a couple of weeks. I began to suspect the other hens of hiding a clutch somewhere out in the orchard.
And then both French Morans developed, yes, crop issues. Not in an uncomfortable way as exhibited by Snowball this past spring. They looked as if—and their crop felt like—they had swallowed a small, hay-wrapped tennis ball. I massaged their crops and gave them coconut oil because I had read that might help to break down those masses. But, I must admit, I was not fully committed. I had spent an OMG amount on keeping Snowball alive and yet didn’t have it in me to repeat the daily drives to the vet, nor the medication tango. I apologized to French Moran One and Two for risking their demise, but they—oblivious to my favoritism—huffed off to a darkened corner to broooooood.
And then we got a call from Carl’s cousin who was moving to Nevada. He wondered if we could take back the pullets permanently. There were only four left from eight. Sometimes nature is brutal. He commented on how safe and snug it is at Darwin’s View.
You might remember the bobcat who took out one of the pullets we were pullet-sitting? Well! S/he came back for a visit in early August. I was in the process of feeding the indoor cats when I looked out the window and there s/he was, under the grape arbor, enjoying the cool morning’s beauty. What a gift! For days afterwards—actually to this moment—her powerful, feline, elegant energy has been within me.
We named the bobcat “Bobbie.” A neutral name because we are not sure if the cat is a boy or girl. When luxuriating under the grape arbor, I think she is a girl; but he is definitely a boy when attacking chickens.
The night after we received the call from Carl’s cousin, while eating dinner, unusual clucks and shrieks came from the hens. We jumped up and out to see what was amiss.
“Bobcat in the chicken yard!” Carl shouted. I ran to the coop. He ran to the garden entrance. Triangulation!
I looked around. White feathers everywhere, a trail of them leading to the back of the orchard.
I ran to follow Carl who ran after Bobbie who held Snowball in his/her mouth as s/he loped to the back of the orchard, leaping up and over the six-foot fence with no apparent effort. Carl darted out the side fence to continue the chase. I yipped and shouted in hopes that that would prevent the cat from turning in adrenaline fierceness to attack Carl.
Bobbie disappeared, camouflaged by the field grasses. Carl picked up the fallen Snowball. A stunned hen, but alive. No blood. We settled her into a nesting box, in between two broody hens.
Having returned to our dinners, we discussed the fact that the cat had jumped over a seven-foot fence, if you include the electrified wire above it. I noted that, if not for my yipping, Bobbie might have turned on Carl and attacked him. And would he, Carl, please be a bit less heroic in the future?
Carl commented that I worry too much; a bobcat wouldn’t attack a human. I retorted that Bobbie is a really big bobcat. Besides, I am a good bit smaller than Carl. When on my hands and knees, looking for a cat toy under a couch or tidying hairballs, I am quite possibly smaller than Bobbie. We agreed, Carl grudgingly, to carry our version of weapons—a broom or a stick—when giving chase next time.
Fifteen minutes later, Carl looked out the greenhouse windows to note Bobbie strolling by with not a worry in the world, though possibly a white feather in his claws to use as future dental floss.
We both ran outside with neither broom nor stick. By the time we got there, Bobbie had leapt up to and over the top of the five-foot fence around Tier 2. Beauty and gravitas, elegance and muscular brawn. No fear whatsoever.
Our Fort Knox coop was definitely not safe. Thinking back over the years, it has never been safe. However much I might tell myself the hens are not in danger and secure, in fact, they have always been vulnerable. In the end, we have always had to tend to them through their illnesses, deaths and births. We, as the human protectors, must protect them.
A few days later, I took a still pale and lethargic Snowball to the vet. It turned out she had a puncture wound on the back of her neck. Not too deep. No liquid in her body so no interior damage. But the vet imagined she must be quite sore and bruised. An anti-inflammatory shot, and more medication. By then, she and I had reached a sad accord. She didn’t have the strength to fight my nursing abilities.
Time took its course. Snowball has left the dog cage of recovery and is outside with the other hens. The returned pullets-now-hens are pecking about. No great kerfuffles. We just have to convince them to all stay in the big coop before the snow flies.
And clearly, Snowballs can survive in hell.
