Trouble in the Pen
Godzilla paid us a visit.
When I told some local Aussies I was getting chickens (aka ‘chooks’ down under), they said it was a great idea. But their well wishes came with a warning. “Between the foxes, hawks, pythons and prehistoric lizards, something is bound to attack them eventually. It’s just a part of living here, accept it,” they’d said.
The thought of putting animals in a helpless situation weighed on me. Do I just leave things to chance? It seemed heartless. So I did some research and discovered solutions to prevent this from happening. The first, build a fence.
We installed one around the adjacent garden and coop to deter these hungry predators. Then we replaced the coop door with an automatic one which lets them in and out based on available sunlight while keeping them safely snug at night.
6 months later, all is well. No signs of trouble. I’m feeling good. The fence is working, the automatic door is working (after many painful iterations, I’ll add) and best of all, no sign of any predators.
Until there is.
4 feet long and loitering outside the chicken run fence!
I hear the warning calls first, a type of squawking that put a real spring to my step as I ran outside and came face-to-face with this Godzilla-like reptile. It saw me and fled.
I’m more vigilant after that, monitoring things hourly. Making sure the doors and windows are open while I’m inside the house so I can hear what’s going on outside.
A few weeks pass. No sign of Godzilla. I know better than to relax, but am trusting the fence is doing its job. Then COVID-19 strikes. I’m inside resting when it happens. Alerted by the now familiar warning squawks of panic-fueled birds, I run out bare toes and all and find Godzilla INSIDE the run!
Jaws snap. Feathers fly. Chooks ( the Aussie slang for chickens) flee. I scream and shout, summoning strength in my weakened lungs and clapping desperately to scare this reptilian beast off.
Godzilla catches on, immediately abandoning its pursuit for fresh meat. I wonder how it’s gotten in; determine where to chase it; find the flaw in the fence, even as it quickly becomes clear that this prehistoric dragon cannot climb through or over it.
Then I see it. A gap. Of course. It’s the shoddy divider I cobbled together to separate the vegetable garden from the chicken run. Tools just aren’t my thing (is there an app for that?) There’s a huge space where the scaly beast slips through and into the garden. Further ahead, I see gaps under the garden fencing where I need to direct it next.
Ten minutes feels like a lifetime as Brett helps me direct the menacing lizard out and beyond the run.
Whoosh!
Catastrophe averted.
Relief washes over me. I count the birds. Still five. Good. But one is lying in the grass. Harriet.
I rush over and inspect the damage. She’d been bitten. Feathers ruffled and missing everywhere; a bite on the chest that left her pink flesh exposed and another behind her left leg.
Goanna saliva contains more bacteria than that dirty gym hot tub even children know better than to get inside of, dissolving the flesh of prey like battery acid. Great.
Brett suggests giving her a Deterol bath to disinfect the wounds. He fetches it for me inside. We fill a bucket with warm water and pour some in it. I hold her steady, trying to drown out her gurgling lungs.
Harriet gets her own coop that night with fresh bedding in the Intensive Chicken Care Unit (ICCU). I go to sleep troubled then wake up early to check on her. I ease open the door with trembling hands, certain I’ll find a dead chicken. And there she is.
My little Bantam survived the night! How? I cannot begin to guess. I pushed some food and water up to her and watched her eat. A good sign, no doubt.
Another Deterol bath follows and a week later she’s shown remarkable progress, every day an improvement. She’s standing now, but walking remains a challenge. I’m hopeful she’ll be up and digging for worms again soon as I continue to monitor her progress.
No sign of the goanna since the day of the attack, I’m hoping it’s because I’d blocked the two holes in the fence. Harriet remains closely guarded in the ICCU.
The other day, we had a break from the monsoon we’ve been living in for the past two-and-a-half months. I let the chickens forage through the upturned soil. Even Harriet got a quiet nook to peck around in. An hour in and I hear Lady Voldemort’s alarm call. She’s the most vocal in the flock and hates to be touched. 8 feet away, just outside the run is a six foot python slithering through the fence, its head squeezing through the wire.
Without thinking, I grab it by the tail, holding firm as Brett’s jaw drops to the grass. But my grip isn’t enough. She’s stronger and my desperate hold is giving.
Twenty minutes later, we manage to scare it off. Another crisis averted.
But the question remains: it’s no longer a matter of if these predators will return, but when, and which one of them will be ordering chicken off the menu as I stand guard.
To learn more about our feathery friends, check out My Chicken is a Drag Queen. Or read about How I Cultivated Inspiration During Lockdown.
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