First we fixed up the chicken coop. It’s so tight the wind has to turn sideways to ventelate the place. There’s even chicken wire, three feet wide, stretched out horizontally all around the base of the structure to keep raccoons from digging their way inside. Then came the chickens—chicks actually—seven hens and a rooster (well, they will be—or mighta been—which is the point of this story). We turned out our iddy-biddy totally defenseless chicks loose in their new home so’s they could grow up fat and sassy and provide us with all the eggs we’d ever need. Well, that was the plan anyway.

Things were going along just fine for a couple of weeks. Our new garden was springing forth, the chicks were shedding their down for real feathers, and all was right on the Triple Creek Ranch. Every evening we’d water the garden, and every morning we’d go out to feed the chicks. Taking pride in our flock always meant counting them first thing. It doesn’t take long to count to eight, and then came the water, food, and then their favorite treat, bread crumbs.

Counting to three hardly counts as counting, which is what happened two weeks ago. Some critter managed to eat four and one-half chicks the night before. And there was no sign of a break-in. We didn’t figure it was an inside job cause chicks aren’t cannibals.

Some time back Ms. Intrepid’s roller canary went to the great beyond, so we commenced to corralling the flock of three into the birdcage and bringing them in the house every night. There, safe and sound right above the kitchen sink, they’d be till morning.

I can’t describe how upset I was when we discovered one dead and four presumed dead chickens. It was coons or possums responsible for the demise of our critters, I was certain. That night Ms. Intrepid and I baited the chicken coop and waited for the culprits in the pick up.

In came the coons. One of them met his maker after I levelled the business end of a 30-guage shotgun on his sorry hide. Then, the following night, came the coon’s revenge. First, they chewed a hole in the door of the chicken coop big enough to drive a pig through; then they ate their fill of chicken feed which was spread all over the place. Then they went for the side yard, rooting through the garden. In the meantime, they tore open a bag of fire-ant poison and licked it clean before doing the same thing to a bag of charcoal.

I don’t know how many of these critters I’m dealing with, but I can tell you a live trap won’t hold them, and I can’t stay up every night till midnight or later waiting to pop another one. Fact is, I generally fall asleep around 10 p.m. no matter what. That’s when the idea to hunt them down presented itself.

Harold, a friend and neighbor from Willow City came over and we drove all over this place with a spotlight so strong a rooster a mile off started crowing. But we didn’t see a single coon in any tree—anywere. Fact is, we didn’t see a single critter at all. And, no, I’m not getting a coon dog. I’m going back to sitting in the pickup with a shotgun, tossing out bait a few feet away, and waiting for them to come to me, like every other respectable redneck.

Now, the chickens—Thelma, Louise and Conan the Rooster—are feathered out and meandering around the fenced yard every day. Near evening we take the birdcage outside, drop a few bread crumbs inside, and the chickens squeeze through the cage door for their nightly pearch above the kitchen sink. Cork, another Willow City friend and neighbor put a serious door on the chicken coop—says there’s cement in the panel tough enough to wear out a good drill bit. But I’m reluctant to use the coop untill I manage to feed the neighborhood buzzards a few more coons. In the meantime I’m reading up on chicken snakes.