Close Call

Who wants to eat a live chicken? Apparently, many neighborhood predators. Why not? They strut around their chicken run, plump and potentially succulent..defenseless. Or so I thought...

It was a dark and stormy night, scratch that, it was a full moon and and a clear night. In fact, the moon resembled a great slice of cucumber. Perfect visibility for our neighborhood predators. Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by gawking and screeching sounds from our yard. Peter and I stumbled outside and tried to locate the creatures making those noises. Or what remained... I prepared myself to stay calm if I found pieces of chicken. After all, I knew this could happen. My brain had gone through the scenario many times, especially on nights with a full moon.

I was prepared to defend my hens. If I had a shot gun I would have carried it high in the air. A protective instinct coupled with an angry need for revenge pumped through my veins. As I looked for them, I pictured a huge raccoon carrying away a bloody chicken in her jaws.

With a pocket flashlight I scanned the yard and found three dazed hens in various poses. Molly and Gotterfunken, frantic and squawking and Pearl, glowing in the moonlight, while she sat in a daze, surrounded by an explosion of loose feathers. I could have stuffed five pillows with feathers. The other chickens were hidden in shrubs and trees. Everyone was alive and the only thing to do was to carry them back to their coop.

I would have carried them into the house and given them sleeping bags and mugs of warm tea. However, this wasn't an option. We tried to put them back in their coop one at a time but each time they fled. Who would run back into a burning house?

Three things I have learned about chickens:
1. They are smarter than you think
2. They remember more than you think they would
3. They can escape from the claws of an owl

There was nothing to do but try to go back to sleep. I lay awake for a long time, imagining a snake or rat or coyote or bear that was going to make a second attempt at a chicken dinner. I suspected that as soon as I fell asleep they would all be doomed. Peter was already snoring.

In the morning they were gathered around our basement window, hiding under a clump of daisies. They appeared to be waiting for breakfast but I wasn't playing that game. I wanted them to return to their own turf. I caught each hen and returned her to the coop. I failed. Each one just hopped out.

The chickens would not go near their coop. They wanted new real estate and they didn't need a broker in a shiny Cadillac.

The yard was theirs until I could find a solution. A condo? A penthouse apartment?
I needed time to think it through.

I cooked myself a bowl of oatmeal and brewed a mug of my favorite tea, Lady Grey. Not true. Actually, I asked Peter to cook me a bowl of oatmeal. Why? Because he doesn't measure ingredients, cooks by intuition, and it tastes creamy and delicious!

Peter's Comfort Oatmeal

1 cup rolled oats
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon brown sugar (or more if you wish)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
1 tablespoon dried cranberries or cherries

Note:
Before you begin cooking, double the recipe because chickens absolutely love oatmeal.

In a medium sauce pot, bring two cups of water to a boil and add the oats. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook on low heat for about two minutes.

Pour the oatmeal into a serving bowl and add stir in the sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and cranberries. Enjoy!