Fowl Play

Or, How I Kept My Dog From Killing My Chickens and lived to tell the tale.

Ivy's been showing lots of interest in the chickens lately, running from one end of the chicken run to the next, barking and generally carrying on. I knew I shouldn't let her do this, but my mobility has been somewhat hindered by my broken foot.

Two days ago, the dogs had been outside for a while and I asked Melissa to check on them. The next thing I knew, there was a shriek of panic as Melissa screamed to me, "Mom, Ivy's in the chicken run!"

Have you ever seen someone run with a broken foot? Painfully comedic, it was.

By the time I got out to the chickens, Melissa was already there, in her pajamas and stocking feet. We both had dashed out without our coats.

Ivy had pulled aside Michael's clever little chicken wire tunnel, the one that led from the coop into the run, and was in a frenzy of chicken chasing.

As I waxed rhapsodic about our chicken coop the other day, I failed to mention a few of the hastily constructed, poorly thought-out, last minute safety features we installed. The chicken wire draped over the run makes it impossible for even a child to stand up in it and the gate into the run was wired shut to prevent prison breaks.

So, there we were, an 11-year-old girl in stocking feet and a hobbled middle-aged woman without a coat, frantically trying to stop our puppy from killing our chickens.

I managed to untangle the wires from the gate, allowing Melissa into the run in a half-crouch. She grabbed Ivy amidst the frantically squawking chickens and dragged her to me. I reached out to grab her with my left arm. Did I ever mention that I've been fighting tennis elbow in my left arm since last May?

Ivy pulled away, wrenching my elbow and forcing me to let go, allowing her to resume her mad chase. Meanwhile, three of the chickens, feathers flying and squawking in fear, flew up at the chicken wire covering, and out through a newly formed gap.

I tried to grab one, but didn't have a good enough hold of her, enduring a wing-battering and a stab on the lip from her claws. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't come to see what all the screaming was about, as Melissa shrieked about murder and I bellowed at the rampaging dog.

Then again, we probably just blended in with the usual background noise.

Anyway, Melissa grabbed Ivy again, dragged her to me, and I man-handled her into the house and shoved her in her kennel. I went back out to retrieve Wally, who seemed a little bewildered by all the hullabaloo, and brought him in as well.

We fixed the chicken wire tunnel as best we could, at least so that the chickens still in the run wouldn't escape, closed the gate to the run, reopened the hatch door to the coop, and took a deep breath.

Three chickens were missing.

Melissa promptly found one in front of the coop and put her back inside.

Where were the other two?

I sent Melissa in for boots and both our jackets so we could search the yard thoroughly. The two escapees were found, huddled together by the garage. Melissa shooed them to me, as I couldn't step down onto the rough terrain (again) and I was able to take them one at a time and return them to safety.

It took both of us a little while to calm down and count our blessings that no chicken was actually killed. There's no way I can Ivy-proof the run with my foot as it is, so the poor ladies will have to stay cooped up until Michael gets back.

On Friday.

On the positive side, I've come up with a way to pay for Ivy's spaying. I plan to rent her out, $50/hour. She'll help farmers determine whether their chicken and other poultry set-ups are predator-proof.

Needless to say, we're teetering on the edge of desperation here.

But we're all still alive.

Even the chickens.