I hope this sad story serves as a lesson to all chicken owners... to really, really make sure that people who watch your chickens while you're away know what to look for.
My fiancee and I went back east to a wedding in New Jersey this weekend. We paid someone $50/night to let the chickens in and out of the coop, make sure they had food and water (and do the same for the cat, sheep, and goat). We left a detailed written list of instructions on where to check for stray chickens, top on the list (bold, underlined, repeated verbally) was to CHECK UNDER THE PORCH FOR BROODIES (and eggs). Because chickens that stay under the porch overnight are meals-ready-to-eat for the possums, raccoons, and coyotes.
My absolute favorite chicken, Tux the silly and friendly Barred Rock, was feeling a bit broody before we left. So was a SLW. Both like to set up camp under the porch, and need to be taken into the coop at night. Note: we have placed boards under the porch so that they can only go in there approximately 3 feet deep, so that they're easily visible at a casual glance from the yard. If you looked under the porch in the light, there's no way you could miss the chicken.
Did I mention how amazing Tux is? She was more puppy dog than chicken, and literally if I opened the front door I had a 50/50 chance of seeing her happy little face, asking in chicken-speak "Could I please have some more of those yummy sunflower seeds from that big bag over there?" She was a major sunflower seed beggar, and also a good friend to my Aussie. (And by "good friend," I mean she pecked my puppy on the nose if the puppy got sassy, and taught the dog not to chase chickens.)
I got in at 2AM this morning. Immediately went to the coop to check on the girls. Every single chicken (67) was there. Except for Tux.
My fiancee and I searched for 2 hours in the pitch dark, shining our flashlights everywhere you might find a chicken. Trees, brush, pasture, neighbor's property. We looked in the basement, the house, places she could never possibly be, but checking just in case. Calling out her name, promising her tons of sunflower seeds if she came home to us.
We were back in the house and I was starting to cry when I had one last thought... check across the road. My fiancee went out to go look; by then I was just too upset to do much of anything. Losing Tux was my worst fear before leaving. While I was gone I prayed and tossed coins in wishing wells hoping that all of my girls would be okay when I returned.
There, across the street, in the vineyards, my fiancee found the half-eaten body of my baby. (She wasn't a year old, hadn't had her first molt.) Her head, wings and feet were intact; the majority of her body was eaten away.
If it had been ANY other chicken, I would have been saddened, but would have said to myself "At least I still have my Tux." And I would have picked her up -- she never even clucks to complain when I scoop her up, she likes it -- and cuddled her to comfort myself. But now I don't have my Tux, and I won't have her ever again... not bugging me for treats when I'm packing up boxes of vegetables to take to market (she always tried to nibble the beet greens), not following me around the chicken yard and jumping up on my shoulder when I least expected it.
So, a word to the wise: if you have a favorite chicken and you're going away, ask your sitters to specifically look for her. Put a band on her if you have to. Because it's the worst feeling in the world to think to yourself, I shouldn't have left. I should have been there. Because I would have looked for her, and I wouldn't have let anything get her. The chicken sitters apparently didn't look under the porch seriously at all, or only put the chickens away after dark when they couldn't see, because they let 18 eggs accumulate there and apparently only found them the last night (and left a note about not knowing whether there were chicks growing inside them or not.)
Interesting sidenote: around the areas where Tux's chicken feathers were (the trail leading to her body), I also found significant clumps of guinea feathers. Not just casual feathers, but serious kind of clumps, say 8-10 feathers stuck together with a bit of skin. And some wing feathers, too. Both guineas were still alive; the hen looked slightly ruffled. I can only imagine that somehow my guinea hen went after whatever it was that took my Tux away. Also, both guineas also walked across the street this morning (bad idea, their sister was hit by a car that way), and set up a terrible racket around where Tux's body had been. They might be loud and obnoxious, but those guineas are here to stay -- at the very least, they fought for my baby when I couldn't.
RIP Tux. You weren't "just a chicken," you were a special part-dog pet. You're irreplaceable, and you will be so very dearly missed. I am so sorry I wasn't there for you.
My fiancee and I went back east to a wedding in New Jersey this weekend. We paid someone $50/night to let the chickens in and out of the coop, make sure they had food and water (and do the same for the cat, sheep, and goat). We left a detailed written list of instructions on where to check for stray chickens, top on the list (bold, underlined, repeated verbally) was to CHECK UNDER THE PORCH FOR BROODIES (and eggs). Because chickens that stay under the porch overnight are meals-ready-to-eat for the possums, raccoons, and coyotes.
My absolute favorite chicken, Tux the silly and friendly Barred Rock, was feeling a bit broody before we left. So was a SLW. Both like to set up camp under the porch, and need to be taken into the coop at night. Note: we have placed boards under the porch so that they can only go in there approximately 3 feet deep, so that they're easily visible at a casual glance from the yard. If you looked under the porch in the light, there's no way you could miss the chicken.
Did I mention how amazing Tux is? She was more puppy dog than chicken, and literally if I opened the front door I had a 50/50 chance of seeing her happy little face, asking in chicken-speak "Could I please have some more of those yummy sunflower seeds from that big bag over there?" She was a major sunflower seed beggar, and also a good friend to my Aussie. (And by "good friend," I mean she pecked my puppy on the nose if the puppy got sassy, and taught the dog not to chase chickens.)
I got in at 2AM this morning. Immediately went to the coop to check on the girls. Every single chicken (67) was there. Except for Tux.
My fiancee and I searched for 2 hours in the pitch dark, shining our flashlights everywhere you might find a chicken. Trees, brush, pasture, neighbor's property. We looked in the basement, the house, places she could never possibly be, but checking just in case. Calling out her name, promising her tons of sunflower seeds if she came home to us.
We were back in the house and I was starting to cry when I had one last thought... check across the road. My fiancee went out to go look; by then I was just too upset to do much of anything. Losing Tux was my worst fear before leaving. While I was gone I prayed and tossed coins in wishing wells hoping that all of my girls would be okay when I returned.
There, across the street, in the vineyards, my fiancee found the half-eaten body of my baby. (She wasn't a year old, hadn't had her first molt.) Her head, wings and feet were intact; the majority of her body was eaten away.
If it had been ANY other chicken, I would have been saddened, but would have said to myself "At least I still have my Tux." And I would have picked her up -- she never even clucks to complain when I scoop her up, she likes it -- and cuddled her to comfort myself. But now I don't have my Tux, and I won't have her ever again... not bugging me for treats when I'm packing up boxes of vegetables to take to market (she always tried to nibble the beet greens), not following me around the chicken yard and jumping up on my shoulder when I least expected it.
So, a word to the wise: if you have a favorite chicken and you're going away, ask your sitters to specifically look for her. Put a band on her if you have to. Because it's the worst feeling in the world to think to yourself, I shouldn't have left. I should have been there. Because I would have looked for her, and I wouldn't have let anything get her. The chicken sitters apparently didn't look under the porch seriously at all, or only put the chickens away after dark when they couldn't see, because they let 18 eggs accumulate there and apparently only found them the last night (and left a note about not knowing whether there were chicks growing inside them or not.)
Interesting sidenote: around the areas where Tux's chicken feathers were (the trail leading to her body), I also found significant clumps of guinea feathers. Not just casual feathers, but serious kind of clumps, say 8-10 feathers stuck together with a bit of skin. And some wing feathers, too. Both guineas were still alive; the hen looked slightly ruffled. I can only imagine that somehow my guinea hen went after whatever it was that took my Tux away. Also, both guineas also walked across the street this morning (bad idea, their sister was hit by a car that way), and set up a terrible racket around where Tux's body had been. They might be loud and obnoxious, but those guineas are here to stay -- at the very least, they fought for my baby when I couldn't.
RIP Tux. You weren't "just a chicken," you were a special part-dog pet. You're irreplaceable, and you will be so very dearly missed. I am so sorry I wasn't there for you.
