The fox made history of my hens

I HAVE been keeping poultry for more than 20 years.

At one time I was quite serious about it with nearly an acre of pens containing over 100 birds of various kinds.

I specialised in breeding old varieties of large fowl, particularly egg- producing ones, as opposed to the meat varieties. It was a pleasant hobby that paid for itself because there is quite a demand for these heritage breeds.

But the interest dwindled over time, and so did the size of the flock.

In fact a couple of weeks ago it had dwindled down to two elderly hens that produced the odd egg for the house.

When the avian flu scare was at its height and I had a few more hens, I dutifully reported my activities to the Department of Agriculture.

So I’m now on a mailing list and get regular letters addressed ‘Dear Flock Owner’ explaining all the EU regulations governing poultry-keeping. Most of them are impossible to comply with if you only have a flock of two.

Anyway, this is a rather rambling story, but it goes back to a stormy night last winter when a tree blew down and flattened the chicken wire surrounding the remnants of my flock.

There were actually three in the flock at the time. One died subsequently of shock and extreme old age.

I started up the chainsaw and went down and turned the tree into fire logs. But the weather was awful and I had other things to do, so I made a rather cursory job of re-erecting the flattened wire.

Everything went fine until about three weeks ago. Then one afternoon I was driving down the lane to the house and my son said … “Look, there’s a fox in the field.”

I should have paid more attention. I should have made a better job of repairing the wire. The purpose of a hen run is not really to keep the hens in, though this is quite important if you also have a garden, it’s to keep predators out.

Anyway, you guessed it. The next day Dear Flock Owner had a flock of zero. The only thing left was a rather sad pile of brown feathers.

I MISSED them. They’re not the most intelligent creatures in the world, but they’re friendly and garrulous and good for dealing with kitchen scraps. There was also the occasional egg of very high quality.

The dog missed them, too. Whenever I lifted the hen bucket beside the sink to go and feed them, he’d jump up and grab his rubber ball, quivering with pleasure at the thought of the short walk down the field, always with the exciting possibility of a flushed pheasant on even a rabbit to chase.

So this little rural drama ended last week with the arrival of a cardboard box, suitably pierced with air holes, containing five ‘point of lay pullets.’ Dealers in livestock of all kinds are not noted to be the most honest citizens of this planet. This goes for poultry dealers, too. The point-of-lay pullets were about the size of quail and I reckon it will be several weeks before they actually lay an egg.

But it’s great to have them. It’s great to have the little bit of token livestock back on the acre.

As for the fox, I bear him no grudge. It’s a tough job being the top predator in the Irish countryside. You have to be smart and grab an opportunity when it’s offered and you go hungry quite often.

The pressure is even greater if you’re trying to supply a vixen and a litter of cubs in your den.

I don’t blame him. I blame myself for being careless.

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