The hens

When I was feeling down, I picked up a bunch of feathers… maybe for an Indian hat?
Sadness this morning, we’re a bit shaken up, shaken up by the loss of our two chickens. It had been prowling around since yesterday… Paul had spotted it. The beast had warned us, it was preparing its attack.
Spared for almost a year, we didn’t escape last night.
In the early morning, while I was still in bed, I heard Paul swearing and then galloping off, without our dog, who is neither a wolf nor even a hunting dog, despite appearances (Saga loves to do things that serve absolutely no purpose, like chasing birds or rabbits, real or imaginary…).
So there was Paul, galloping across the field, looking pretty desperate from where I was, but always so brave! He couldn’t just stand by and watch the fox steal something; no, ‘steal’ is definitely not the right word… we see it as a crime! No, that’s not it either, I’m getting sidetracked; so what would it be, just a natural attack obeying the laws of nature? The fact that our chickens feed the fox, the vixen and the cubs should console me a little and chase away the sadness of Cocotte and Poupoule’s departure. We only had two left a few weeks ago, but Minute’s disappearance remained a mystery, as she simply vanished without leaving a single feather behind.

This time it was a bit harder, no chickens left to console us, our two chickens were eaten in one go, or rather in two stages, we found two tufts of feathers in two different directions from the chicken coop. One was quite far from the enclosure, towards the campsite reception (not the direction the fox took when Paul ran after it). The beast must have come twice, killing both at once and then coming back for the second one? Or did it leave one hen waiting for its return in panic and fear? It’s like something out of a bad horror film. Which one first? Here I am, it’s ridiculous, imagining scenarios, seeing my chickens in pain, feeling guilty for not having been able to protect them from what seems to be an inevitable end. I told myself, ‘The fox won’t come because Saga sleeps outside and roams around the campsite at night between naps,’ but that’s no longer the case since we’ve been here, because our little beast stays tied up at night, and last night she didn’t even sleep outside… Did she warn us about the visitor?
Anyway, I’m writing to mourn a little. We get attached, isn’t that silly? And damn, it was so cool to have good eggs every day!
So we’re going to take the opportunity to clean the chicken coop, put the wire back up properly, maybe even cover the top? And then buy two more chickens.
And then come to terms with it. The fox will be back. It was the first time (we’re not used to it yet), it won’t be the last, let’s be realistic. It will always hurt a little.
The beast knows the address now, it will come back.
So what, should we call our next chickens ‘Pizza’ and ‘Croque-monsieur’?