A visitor trotted through the yard one morning last week, just outside the boy's playroom. We looked up in surprise at the coyote pup moving quickly and cautiously toward the chicken coop. Having lost several chickens in recent months, I opened the door and scared her off with a shout.
An hour later, though, she was back. Ole and I were upstairs getting cleaned up, and he stood with his nose to the window watching her. She stood on the edge of the blackberry brambles for half an hour listening and looking left and right. From this viewpoint I could see that she was mangy. Despite the patches of missing fur and a nearly hairless tail, she was graceful in her movements and quite young looking. I stood on the deck wrapped in a bath towel and snapped a few photos, but as she relaxed and moved toward the coop again, I hollered and off she ran.
Alex offered to get out the pellet gun and scare her off for good, but I demurred. Instead I spent the afternoon googling mange treatments. Not much good news on that front, as it usually leads to an unpleasant death. The website offered warnings, though, and I'll keep saying it over and over until I believe it:
Treatment of wild animals is difficult and not advised.
I'll end with this hen wandering the yard, completely oblivious to the excitement of the day.
Keep it secret, keep it safe little leghorn.
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