Breeched Coop

Tuesday, October 28, 2025

Over the past two nights, six of my chickens were slaughtered. I’m still in disbelief as I write this. After fifteen years of keeping a small flock of hens in the same sheltered space, I’d come to trust their little world completely — as if it, fenced and familiar, was as safe as my own. Until now, I’d never lost a single bird to a predator.

Yesterday morning, searching harder for a predator entry, I finally noticed a small patch of ground dug out beneath the coop fencing — no clear tracks, just a telltale hollow. Later, my neighbor, Frank, shared an image caught on his critter-cam: a fox, intent, caught in mid-stride. That photo made my heart sink. The timing fit.

My hens were only about three years old — healthy, lively, full of character, and good layers. Finding them brutally torn apart was gut-wrenching. There’s something especially terrible about losing animals you’ve raised from chicks — who greet you each morning with their expectations, chattering, wide-winged, and bright-eyed. You grow accustomed to their presence — their daily routines, their quiet sense of community.

Yesterday afternoon, after those second tragic slaughters, I worked hard to reinforce the coop-area fencing. I laid wire mesh and weighed it down with heavy stones along the bottom — especially where the digging had occurred, and as far beyond as I could manage. But when darkness fell, I gave up, still uneasy about the coop, not yet secure enough.

Last night, I hardly slept. Even small sounds outside felt amplified — the wind, the shifting leaves — all seeming to echo what had already happened.

I wasn’t prepared for this. You can live somewhere for years, believing you’ve built a safe space for the creatures who depend on you, only to find that nature has a way of reminding you it’s still in charge. Foxes, coyotes, raccoons — survivors too, hungry and driven by their own needs. But knowing and respecting that doesn’t make the losses any easier.

Today, as usual, I’ll feed my critters — but it’ll feel different. The barnyard will be quieter, emptier. I’ll keep working to strengthen the coop, to guard what remains. But there’s no undoing the shock of sudden, cruel losses — proof of yet another lesson in semi-rural life: that the peace we find in nature always exists alongside its rawness.

Still, I’ll step outside as always — hoping to see some still-live birds. I’ll feed them, recheck yesterday’s hasty security measures, and I’ll keep reminding myself that healing — like rebuilding — begins with small, steady acts of care.

— Diana