Last weekend, we lost one of our backyard chickens, a Plymouth Rock named Chicken Whittle. That’s her in the foreground here, the short-tailed black and white, in a photograph I would entitle Redneck Life with Chickens if I were the kind of person who titles her photos.
One of my friends brought me condolence chocolate and a sweet sympathy note. Other friends let me know how sorry they were, sending virtual hugs via Facebook. They know that we aren’t in the livestock business here, that while we enjoy fresh eggs, our chickens are pets, not farm animals. We coddle them and talk to them and give them goofy names. Losing one is a personal blow, not a financial one.
Predators don’t care one way or another, however—a chicken is a meal to them whether it has a name or not. And that is what happened to Chicken Whittle. At three in the morning, we heard a squawk. And that was that.
We could recognize the culprit from the clues. This was no hawk or owl, no raccoon or weasel. No roaming dog or cat left out all night (don’t even get me started on the irresponsible owners behind those). This crime was swift and total, a professional job. My husband put out the game camera, and when we reviewed the images the next morning, we were unsurprised at what they revealed.
A fox.
A gray fox to be precise, Urocyon cinereoargenteus. Its specific epithet (the second part of its scientific name) means ashen silver. Not a true fox like the red fox, it's the only North American canid able to climb trees.
This particular specimen is healthy, which is surprising considering that our subdivision was recently deforested, with over sixty green acres suddenly clear-cut. Water collects in stagnant pools now, creating breeding grounds for mosquitoes. The rabbit population took a hit, but they are finally returning to this area, as are the deer. The great horned owls have not been so lucky—their numbers are decreasing as they are forced to pursue prey across dangerous highways. The barred owls are thriving, though, the hawks too. I have even spotted a bald eagle landing right in front of my car as I was about to turn into my driveway.
I recognize this fox is part of something bigger than my backyard, which is inextricably linked to this larger ecosystem. There is no point killing the fox—some other predator would simply move into the void its death would create (that old adage about nature and vacuums being proven correct yet again). We have decided that stronger deterrence is needed, so my husband is installing an electric fence around the roost. Any predator sticking its nose in the wrong place will get an unpleasant zap now, and our remaining chicken should be safe.
I miss Chicken Whittle, and I am sad at her demise, but I cannot hate the fox. A fox is as a fox does, to paraphrase an old saying. But I hope that this one will look for prey elsewhere from now on, even if it’s a beauty to behold.
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Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph mysteries for Poisoned Pen Press. The fifth book in this Atlanta-based series—Reckoning and Ruin—was released last year. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and serves as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.
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