Turkey Tracks: February 1, 2011
May May Chicken Is Gone
Yesterday, May May Chicken was killed at dusk and partially eaten by a large bird.
Here’s a picture of her from last spring around the time we first got our chickens in March. The grass is just greening up. At that time, the Marans were about 18 months old. And, maybe even a bit more. She had a fancier name that I can’t for the life of me remember. She became May May over the summer.
Yesterday afternoon I was happily engrossed in making Karen Johnson’s purse, and I did not hear a thing. Neither did John, whose office windows, though closed with blinds to keep out the cold, are no more than 10 feet away.
Anyway, I went out at deep dusk or a bit later–the chickens have been slow to roost as they’ve been enjoying being outside. Mostly, they’ve been hanging out under the porch, right next to one of John’s office windows. They have scratched out the rocks and pulled out the black weed cloth and have been trying to take dirt baths. One night this week I had to climb up the slope back of the birdfood storage bench, pick up two of the Maran hens, and put them into the coop. Had they had been scared to cross the snow to their coop? So, while May May was being killed, I was both occupied with my project and giving the hens plenty of time to go into the coop.
I went out the kitchen door, flashlight in hand, and around the snow path to the coop. (We have more than 2 feet of snow on the ground and have dug paths to get around the house.) When I lifted the roof lid to make sure the chickens were all inside, I only saw three Maran hens. The other hens and the rooster were uncharacteristically subdued I realized later. I started down the path to where the chickens had spent the day and begin to see black feathers. At first, it didn’t register. Then, I saw her body, a dark heap atop the snow. Crimson, bright blood soaked the little hollow where she lay. Her neck had obviously been broken, and part of her breast had been torn away so that her flesh was exposed. I stepped into the bank, went up to my knee in the snow as my boot sought firm ground, and picked her up. She was surprisingly heavy. Oh, I thought, I am feeding them right.
For some reason, I put her back down and went to tell John. I knew he would want to know, would want to see for himself. He pulled on boots and coat and came immediately. Together we took in the information left for us to witness. There were no signs of an epic struggle. We hoped that meant she had died instantly. There was a small patch of scratch marks in the snow. Hers? Made by her feet as she died? Either an animal or a bird who walked on the snow would have left prints. No, it was a bird that got her and then sat on her body to eat her, which is why the soft snow was so hollowed out underneath her. She was too heavy for the bird to lift. So, the bird ate until disturbed in some way. Perhaps, by the dogs who had gone out several times while I had been sewing. At one point, Reynolds came to see me, as if to tell me something. But I had ignored her, intent on my project.
I picked up May May’s body again and was again surprised at how heavy she was. I took her to the garage and put her into a trash can. What else could I do with her? Leaving her lying in the snow to at least feed something in this winter of heavy snow was unthinkable. We do not want to tempt foxes, weasels (the dreaded weasels), coyotes, or racoons into the chicken area. Nor did we want to tempt our dogs. In the end, her flesh was wasted, trashed, but for a few mouthfuls.
It’s such a strange thing to contemplate death. In the early afternoon, I had stroked May May while she sat on the nest in the corner of the coop where the hens have been laying. She had been sitting on two brown eggs, one of which may have been hers. She had stayed when I reached beneath her and took out the eggs. She had allowed me to stroke her back a time or two more before I closed the roof lid. Perhaps one of the eggs I collected before locking in the remaining chickens for the night had been hers, laid after I had left her. May May had been warm, alive, interested. And now, there was the lump of her body. The life had gone; her spirit had departed. But, to where?
John’s protective mode went into full gear. He wanted to “get the sucker,” and he got up early to peer out of the windows to see if he could spot the bird, who might return to try to eat from its prey once more. He thought he saw an eagle in our trees. He said the bird had a huge wing span, bigger than a hawk’s. I do not know if an owl is large enough to take down a hen of May May’s size. Probably. And I do think she was killed at dusk because she wasn’t really cold when I picked her up. Anyway, May May’s death is a reminder that nature is not kind, that nature is rapacious and filled with creatures who must eat to live, including man himself.
I am feeling more than a little guilty today because the chickens did not really want to come out in the snow. They knew it was dangerous. They knew they were prime targets against the white snow. That’s why they had hunkered down under the porch. They knew they could be killed out on the snow paths. And, May May was. But, they came out in the first place because I told them it was ok, because they had followed me down the path as I scattered a bit of seed for them, seed they could not resist. I am shamed that I listened to anyone say how dumb chickens are because they won’t go out into the snow unless you make them. What hubris! What a mistake. What a lack of understanding about chickens and predators. Chickens almost always stay beneath plants and trees and porches and buildings. In the winter, they are so at risk.
Here’s a picture of our original six chickens, taken in the fall before Chickie Annie joined then. May May is the middle black hen. She was the “head” hen, and she was fiesty and full of life and altogether wonderful. We will all miss her and the very large brown eggs she laid.
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