Sapelo Farms

05-22-11

"Wild, wild West"

I have been loathe to repeat this story for the damage that may be done to our reputations.
Nonetheless, after another week in the wild, wild West I think it is time to confess to the plight which currently faces the farm.
For years now, actually for as long as I've been back at the farm, we've had a fox we affectionately refer to as White Tail. If you guessed that said fox is red with a shockingly white tail you would be entirely correct.
Somehow we've reached a mostly peaceful coexistence with White Tail who keeps us awake in the spring with his mating yips and calls, shocks us in the summer when he appears to hunt mice in the hayfields, and pleases us beyond reason in the fall when he appears with his litter of kits to play along the haybales.
Of course this happy, bucolic life was bound to end.
Oh sure, occasionally White Tail snagged a chicken or two, once he even dug into the coop at night and carried off five good laying hens, but a little electric fence stopped that problem and life resumed.
This spring such was not the case. This spring Red Tail appeared. Red Tail was not as understanding as White Tail, she was hungry all of the time and she developed a taste for chicken that was astounding.
We took the odd pot shot at her here and there but it wasn't until she began appearing every morning to haul off two chickens at a time that the whole deal was up.
Early this spring, Andrew shot Red Tail.
Oh we felt terrible, just horribly sick about the whole situation, but we reached a point where it was the fox or us.
(And before you think we're not problem solvers I will add that yes, we tried a large Have-A-Heart trap baited with everything from live chickens to dead chickens to cat food and peanut butter. Foxes do not like traps. On the other hand, we discovered an astonishing population of opossums, raccoons and even a wayward turtle that we did not know lived on the farm.
We did, finally, draw a line at the very innocent and sweet suggestion from a customer that perhaps we should purchase chickens from the grocery store and feed the fox to keep her from eating our hens. Yes, we have limits.)
Following the death of Red Tail, things at the farm improved. The older laying hens settled back into a happy routine of lounging around the barnyard, eating compost and goat feed that the goats, never the cleanest animals, spilled.
The young flock of pullets (young, female hens that are not yet laying) moved to the larger coop at the horse barn and began to enjoy their daily outings of scratching in the horse stalls and sunning under the live oak tree.
All was right in the world.
Which is to say that nothing ideal ever lasts.
Three weeks ago, as I stood at the produce table putting together CSA boxes, I was horrified to look towards the horse barn in time to see a red fox chase down one of BA's prized Delaware hens.
In one swift move, the fox threw the hen to the ground, killing her, before turning back to another terrified hen.
In my haste I ran, without gun or phone, after the fox.
I reached the barn just in time to save a Blue Laced Red Wyandotte from the same fate as the Delaware. The fox looked at me, puzzled, then lopped across the field about 50 yards, sat on his haunches and watched me.
As my dear bee mentor would say, that was enough to make hot water run in my veins.
This new interloper, obviously a young, inexperienced fox, had killed five hens and left them scattered around the barnyard.
We were, officially, instantly, at war.

At the time of this telling, the fox and his mate are still on the loose. The have, in the course of three weeks, made off with over a dozen hens.
Oh sure, we went back to the electric fence trick, locking the young pullets up for all but a few hours a day, but it was only a matter of time before the foxes found the second coop and gorged themselves on those older, fatter hens.
I will relate one final volley in our efforts to chase off these new fiends.
Last Saturday (and you may recall that David is currently one-armed following shoulder surgery so he's shooting left-handed and left-shouldered - less than ideal), last Saturday, after CSA had finished their pick-ups and after Andrew had gone to work (I swear this pair of foxes knows when his Jeep is here and when it is gone!), the foxes appeared.
It was raining. No, it was pouring, and we went on the hunt.
David, in poncho and sporting his new .223, stood in the equipment barn facing west towards the swamp.
I stood by the chicken barn with the shot gun and BA took up her post in the garden.
The foxes, working as a pair, made several rounds looping back and forth between the barns, running along the ditches for cover.
We stalked, we waited, we lined up shots and then did not take them.
Finally, cold and wet and frustrated, I walked to the equipment barn to convene with my fellow hunters.
Just as I arrived, the larger of the two foxes emerged across the field carrying a large, fat, black hen.
He trotted across the field, rain coming sideways, toting his prize.
David, stoically, raised the gun, leveled the scope, and pulled the trigger.
The hen fell to the ground and the fox fell away into the ditch.
We cheered. We high-fived. We congratulated.
BA suggested that we walk out and make sure the fox was dead.
At that precise moment, the hen, not dead but only stunned, leapt up and began running towards the house.
We were euphoric. We could hardly believe our luck.
As I've said, all good things (ok, not all -- I can think of several good things that I would just as soon never end!) but in this case, all good things must come to an end.
The fox, also, apparently, not dead but stunned, leapt back from the ditch, snagged the hen and raced off into the woods before any of us could even manage to raise our guns.
At about the same time, the smaller fox appeared in the ditch just in front of us.
That did it. BA could take no more.
Raising her .22, she began walking across the field firing as she walked.
Now as it just so happens (and yes, I am going to tell this part of the story), one of our fields has a gate where the electric wire crosses overhead and is held by a pair of pcv pipes. The pipes began about five feet off the ground and rise ten feet into the air. They are perfect for insulation and sturdy enough to hold the wire.
About half way across the field, determined to chase the fox into the woods if not kill it, BA fired a shot that snapped the pvc pipe in half.
Angry as I was, cold and wet as I was, I doubled over laughing.
"Did the fox jump?" I called out.
Bang.
"Shut..."
Bang.
"...up."
Bang.
She yelled back.

So the foxes are still on the loose.
On Tuesday two chickens escaped from the coop and were promptly converted into fox dinner.
As I walked into the barnyard, the smaller fox was coming out from underneath the gate. She paused and looked at me before turning and trotting back to the woods.
Until this issue is resolved, I fear we are living in the wild, wild west.

s

05-08-11