TheBanyanTree: Tales of a Woodcat

[Roger]

Apologies for crosspostings.

(Robin and I have kept and cared for chickens for several years. Initially
it was with the idea that one day, perhaps, if we liked having them around,
we could do so on a bigger scale on our own property somewhere. Four years
ago  we acquired 15 acres of land not far from the south coast of NSW
although a great deal higher. We continued to live in Canberra until six
months ago when our landlord put the house up for sale. We were fortunate
indeed to have a friend offer us the house in which we now live, a mere 20
kilometres away from our own acreage as the crow flies but 50 by road, half
of it being dirt and the rest bitumen in less than best state of repairs.
When we moved, we brought the chooks with us as we did our other critters.)

PERSPECTIVE

THE FLOCK:
The chooks numbered seven: Crumpet and Petunia, Isa Browns 3 years old;
Snap, Crackle and Pop (aged 2) and Little Chook and Wheezy Chook (both 1),
red hens of a similar style. They were fed every evening with a special mix
of grain, laying pellets and crushed eggshell to supplement their forage
and as a result produced daily between three and seven 800 gram eggs with
big golden yolks, much sought after by Molly, the owner of a cafe in the
nearest town who received a dozen each week and described them to her
customers as 'Farm Fresh Free Range'.

The Isa Browns had started their laying life in the backyard of a house in
the Australian National Capital, Canberra. There had originally been four
of them but Lilac and Lavender had succumbed to the elements and natural
causes during their first year hence the gradual acquisition of the others.
Their urban sojourn had ended one day six months before when their owners
moved to the outskirts of a tiny rural village a hundred or so kilometres
away. Their new 'garden' comprised two acres with large grassy areas and a
multiplicity of plants and shady trees and the chickens foraged far and
wide both within and, to a degree, outside of it.

Now it was December, midsummer and very hot particularly during the
afternoons. The best shade the chickens had found was in amongst the
willows which lined the seasonal creek at the bottom of the garden . . . .
.

THE FAMILY:
Roger and Robin, both second time around, had met sixteen years before and
been married fourteen. He was a semi-retired alternative healer and
woodcraftsman, she worked in the city commuting each week and boarding with
a friend. As well as the chooks that they cared for there were four cats
and two dogs. The patriarch was the ginger tom Woodstock (12); his
'kittens' were Caspar, black cat (9), Merlin, tabby with some white
markings (4), Midgley, longhaired tabby with white paws (30 mths), Ruby,
Yorkie (7) and Rocky, Kelpie (16 mths). The cats were not allowed to roam
freely (they had a cage attached to the house where they could lie in the
sun or do their ablutions), the Yorkshire terrier was an 'inside' dog and
Rocky, whose kennel was outside by the front door, was learning to be their
guard dog.

The family's routines at home had long been in existence and needed only a
little variation to fit the new situation. Rocky had three walks or runs a
day; during the morning walk he and Roger stopped by the coop to let the
chooks out and the third one took place after the chickens had been locked
up in their coop for the night. Ruby went out several times a day, usually
supervised but sometimes not; in any case she never went far from the
house. All the companions were fed at the same time; they had two meals a
day (morning and evening) and a few biscuits at supper time and fresh water
was always available.

Probably because of the plentiful food which the chickens received every
night from him, whenever Roger stepped out of the house he immediately
became the focus of their attention and, once gathered, they followed him
about for several minutes until something else caught their attention. On a
Monday in December when he left the house after lunch to set about building
a bigger chicken coop the expected rush did not happen; just one solitary
chicken appeared, bokked around his feet and then wandered off bokking to
itself. Clearly something was wrong; he looked at his tools laying on the
workbench, decided the job could wait a little longer and went searching
instead.

Twenty minutes later after checking all the usual places the chickens went
he found himself approaching the willow bordered creek. The fences there
were in poor condition, he reminded himself, and they might well be down in
the creekbed if not further afield. As he pushed his way past the first
trees, however, he saw he need not have worried. Four of the missing chooks
were pecking the ground on his side of the fence which bounded the land
from their neighbour and the other one was in sphinx position in the
calf-high grass on the other side. True to form, as he appeared they all
rushed towards him, bokking wildly, and followed him out into the sunshine.

Tuesday, it rained on and off in the morning and in the afternoon and
evening there were thunderstorms. As was usual in such conditions nobody
strayed far from house or coop. Wednesday although it was hot and sunny
again Roger spent most of the day indoors writing. Robin was in Canberra
and he did not expect to see her before 6pm. At four o'clock he took Rocky
and Ruby for a walk in the reserve which backed on to part of the acreage.
Usually there were a few cows and horses in the pasture but on this day
they were not in sight. Neither were any chooks but having seen the
majority down by the creek just two days before reassured him, they were
probably there again.

At half past five, however, when he went out to feed them only two appeared
and they seemed confused and unusually quiet. He locked them up with their
feed and headed for the bottom of the garden. A bush not far from the first
willow trees took his attention; he knelt, looked hard at the brown and
white feathers scattered on the grass and with dread in his heart raised
his head and stared at the boundary fence . . . .

THE PREDATOR:
Two of the three cubs lying on the dirt floor uncurled themselves as part
of an earth wall shivered and collapsed to reveal the head and shoulders of
a large wombat; the third cub lay comatose, unmoved by the disturbance. Off
to one side was a hen's carcase; from it a trail of brown and white
feathers marked the entrance to the burrow.

<That cub is not going to survive> the wombat observed in the lingua franca
common to all animals but only a few humans.

<I know it>  the cub's mother replied. <Of the five I bore only his two
brothers will live to leave my side at some time in the future. What will
happen to them then is anybody's guess. I was hoping to stay here until
they were fully weaned but now I suppose it's impossible>

<Not impossible, merely foolish. Had you chosen to take any one else's
chickens from around here they would have been after you with guns and
dogs. But not that man, he respects your presence in the natural scheme of
things. Even so you would be well advised to leave here as soon as you are
able. It won't take long for word to get around, I would suggest you should
be gone within two or three sleeps at the very latest. There are caves and
burrows further along the valley and few people to worry about. You might
even find your mate there>

<Ha!> the vixen said. <Not him, he shot through when we encountered man
smell in the valley where there has been none ever before. Another, maybe,
would be welcome . . . . . . .>

THE CAFE OWNER:
"Sorry, eggs are off the menu for a few weeks," Roger said. "Five of our
chooks were taken by a fox yesterday."

"How many did you have?" Molly asked.

"Seven."

" I can have my husband come out with his gun if you like."

"No, the way the carcases were clustered it's most likely a vixen feeding
cubs. Thanks but no," he repeated.

"They're vermin, pests. They're an introduced species."

The implication was obvious. "That makes killing them out of hand right,
does it? We are an introduced species, too!" Roger closed the door none too
gently on his way out.

RESUPPLY:
The suburban backyard was full of chickens, literally, everywhere the two
could see. They were clearly well looked after but there must have been a
certain level of noise because of the roosters if nothing else. "No
rooster," he reiterated having made the point once already. "Just chicks."

"Okay, I'll put these back in their pen and get the others, four there are,
mainly Sussex crosses but really a little bit of everything. They're not
like Isa Browns which have been so overbred they die of fright before the
fox reaches them. No, these beauties will kick and fight and flap their
wings and make a loud noise. The fox might get one but that would be all."

THE FLOCK:
The chooks number six: Petunia, (3) and Captain Crackle (2); three Sussex
crosses, white birds with dark flecks which are everything their breeder
had described and a fourth which is the smallest and therefore the most
henpecked (3 mths). At night these four occupy the new coop which is all
timber and the older chooks stay in the chicken tractor which had housed
them before. They are all fed every evening with a special mix of grain,
laying pellets and crushed eggshell to supplement their forage (which is
temporarily limited to a few square metres) and at the time of writing are
producing four eggs a day (Petunia, one weakshelled and usually crushed; CC
one, 800g; the new chums two, 50g each)

AFTERTHOUGHT:
"We'll have to be more careful in future," Robin said. "Perhaps you had
better not get so attached to them."

Roger peered at the chook images on his monitor then down at his hands.
"Would you mind telling me how I do that? Not get attached to them, I mean?
When they run to meet me, follow me everywhere, eat from my hands, dig
where I dig, almost every day, year after year?"

There was a long silence, then "I don't know," she answered very softly.

And they left it like that  . . .