Disappearing Hens

Scratching in leaves

Our little flock of five laying hens has dwindled.

This past week, we lost one hen, then three days later, a second. Both times, it happened in broad daylight. 

The flock was free-ranging in the orchard, in plain view of the house. But I was away caregiving, and John never heard the hens’ alarm calls—when hens sense a threat, the entire flock will buck-buck-buck like crazy.

From the small amount of evidence—a couple of patches of blond feathers on the ground, a sprinkling of more feathers close by—John and I guessed both girls were killed by a hawk or owl. Both raptors are a common sight around here, and could easily have swooped down, picked up a chicken, and taken flight.

Our previous flock was attacked by what we believe was coyotes—there was a trail of feathers going from the pen to deep into the woods. Years ago, with our first flock, our four hens were killed by a cougar. I saw the big cat the day it killed one hen. Two days later, it got the last three, leaving pieces of the corpses all over the place. (See my 2013 posts.)

What’s particularly different about losing these two girls is that the remaining three hens haven’t shown any signs of trauma. The other times a hen was attacked, the other girls hid in the coop for days on end. And they were jumpy and temperamental long after that.

But maybe these girls never even saw their "sisters" being attacked. We've often had a hen linger by herself out in the orchard, while the others have gone into their caged-in run to eat or do their dust-bathing. 

Four girls safe in the “caged” pen

I have noticed our most dramatic wildlife incursions have happened when we haven’t been spending much time outside. If we’re away from home, I suppose the wild animals are sensing the lack of human scent and presence. Even if only one of us is gone, that’s still one less person out in the yard—and it could be that just the one person isn’t putting off the wild critters like two would.  

Five hens made for a bustling little homestead flock. Our girls got along well, were the cleanest flock we'd ever had, and had just made it through some very severe winter weather like champs. We were sad to lose a hen, but tried to be realistic: the pressure from wildlife here in the Foothills is intense. 

Now, we are keeping the hens penned up in their "cage." John and I are afraid to let them out, even into their small pen. The girls have been watching the house--probably wondering why their humans won't let them out into the fresh air.

All the same, it’s hard to be philosophical about losing yet another girl. For several days, I kept watching our flock, hoping one of our missing girls would reappear, like she’d only gotten lost in the woods and finally found her way home. But I knew both hens were gone.

And our little flock of three feels quite forlorn.

Update: 

Our closest neighbors and fellow laying-hen keepers lost two girls a couple of days ago—they have a very secure pen too, though no net on top. The evidence was similar to that of our place—patches of feathers, but no entrails or other signs with the feathers. Our neighbors are inclined to guess it was coyotes rather than the raptors John and I were thinking got our hens, since at their place, a trail of feathers led into the woods. 

In any event, the culprits remain a mystery.