A Huntress Awakens...

I've heard it said that when a person moves to the country, it changes them in some deep, fundamental way. I suppose that's true; I certainly never expected to be crawling around in dirt yanking thorny plants and grass out of the ground so my tomatoes and peas could have some less competition. And I definitely never expected to wake up to the dulcet sounds of a punk-rock chicken crowing at six o'clock in the morning.

Yes, a punk-rock chicken. Behold:

This is a stock image, not our actual chickens. But these are silkies, and as you can tell, they look like they just got home from an 80s' retro party. We have four of them, which we got for a final cost of nothing whatsoever. They're young, not yet laying eggs, and there are two hens and two roosters. We'll see if we end up with more at some point. The big barn coop isn't done yet; it's tough to work on it when both Ashton and I are working full-time jobs. We'll have to try to get it done on the weekend, if we can find the wire mesh to finish it off.

But this post isn't about chickens, or about vegetables. No, it's about Raven, our puppy-girl. She's nearly eight years old now, and she's having the time of her life out here. Instead of a tiny fenced-in backyard where all she has to look forward to is our nightly walks, she can go outside during the day and run around for hours, exploring the terrain and still not exhausting its possibilities. But today...oh, today was something different.

My wife and I were dealing with chicken stuff (food, water, etc.), and the dogs were wandering around as usual. Then Dexter (the yappy beagle) starts barking up a storm, just going nuts. We look over, and Dannielle's first concern was that the dogs had gotten themselves caught in some as-yet undiscovered barbed wire. So, I head in that direction to see if they're stuck, or hurt. Dexter's still going crazy, and I hear Raven growling and see her whipping her head back and forth.

Then I heard the squeaking shriek.

Let me tell you, there is still enough city in me that I did not want to continue walking in that direction. But I saw enough to know that yes, our sweet, faithful, darling puppy-girl had just caught and killed a raccoon. To our knowledge, that's a first for her. When my wife and I walked over to see it, she casually picked up her trophy in her mouth and moved away from us, not wanting us to steal her prize, I suppose. Then, she decided to put it on display for the world to see. On our front porch.

I got her to stop long enough to get this picture, then she trotted to the front of the house and deposited her prize on the front porch, right next to the crate with the two rabbits inside. I'm hoping they aren't traumatized by the experience.

So, our puppy-girl has grown up and become a huntress. At least we know she's ready to protect the farm from the predators here on the island. But we also know that there is no way on God's green earth we're letting those chickens roam around free-range on this property, because she will be happy to practice her hunting skills on them. And they're not as tough to catch as a raccoon.