I thought it would be a good week for a funny story. Enjoy!
Our first three nights in August at our first homestead were quite peaceful. Mommy and I spent several days, with the help of the Baker Flock, building a coop for our 31 young chickens. At the time my bitties were only 7 weeks old and I had finally gotten the courage up to put them into the coop – outside where vermin and rascals roam.
On our third night here we sat out on the front porch drinking root beer floats, a very rare and special treat. Suddenly we heard the chicks squawking and something tearing. We stared at each other for a spit second. I slammed down my mug on the wood table and ran, barefoot, through the yard in only my night gown. My bright flamingo coloured, strappy night gown.
When I arrived at the back yard I saw what I first thought was a ewe standing at the back of the coop. Then I saw that the ewe was a dog, and the dog was two dogs. My neighbor’s two guardian puppies, big 100 pound puppies, had ripped the tarp off the back of my hoop house and were trying their absolute best to pull the wire off the steel frame. Mom had followed me around and grabbed a piece of hose pipe from the shed and commenced to beating off the maunders. However, my main concern was that the wee babies in my care were piling up on each other and I was about to experience fatal smothering! This led to my screaming for help and my mother climbing into the coop through the tiny door made from roughly cut cattle paneling and hardware cloth.
Being brave and paying no mind to the pecking beaks, she began to bail the chicks from on top of each other. As she would grab one from the bottom that had ceased to breathe, Mom performed CPR, Chicken Pulmonary Resuscitation, and set the pullet aside to recover before it dove back into the sea of squalling beaks and feathers. This went on for about half an hour.
In the mean time I had ducked into the house, grabbed the .22 pistol and rifle. I was still trying to beat the varmints off with the hose pipe while yelling in the most ferocious voice, “Don’t you touch my chickens. I’ll kill you if you touch my chickens! “. Since the teenage canines thought I was playing with them, I decided to shoot over their bouncing heads. Only one problem – I had no where to shoot that I was not in danger of hitting the house, a cow, a sheep, a goat, or my mother who was as this point yelling “Breathe! Dammit! Breathe!
Ever so carefully I aimed my rather quiet hunting rifle at the ground in the driveway where I had finally beaten the dogs back to. The first shot rang out with a mild flash of gunpowder in the growing darkness. This action only convinced my new friends that I was as intent on playing as they. At this point, one of them picked up the hose pipe and started shaking it – almost hitting me. I was not amused. Momma hollered above the din of chicken chirps to fire the pistol because it is very loud. I retrieve it from my pocket, cocked back the hammer, aimed at the ground right in front of the largest dog’s feet and pulled the trigger. They ran!
I headed for the coop and helped Momma with bailing chicks and CPR. We decided since we still had the boxes we moved our precious ones in that they should sleep in the house on the enclosed back porch in the boxes until arrangements could me made to seal off the hole in the fence. So we gathered up our hens and cockerels into boxes, tucked them in, and decided that the next time we had root beer floats it would be with a new hose in hand.