vituperation

We lost our first chicken to the hawks back in September. I found her in the old chicken yard, just laying there dead, her neck all loose and floppy. At the time, I attributed it to a randy rooster getting a little too aggressive during mating; I assumed he broke her neck. Study on my part (and time spent reading the predators/pests forum over at Backyard Chickens) taught me that it was actually a hawk, breaking her back when it dove on her. My assumption is that something scared the hawk off before it could feed.

The second chicken was taken about a month later, and on this one the hawk did get a chance to chow down. Her neck and breast were stripped to the bone. We dithered a bit after the second loss, because the chickens were going to be moved soon to an even more hawk-friendly place: our back forty, a wide-open field ringed by large trees, perfect for hanging out in and watching the plump morsels forage.

We talked about building shelters around the field, and maybe planting some bushes, trees, or some sort of cover crop like corn. Places for the chickens to hide if they spotted a hawk. That’s the problem, of course, they don’t always spot them. They’re too busy chasing after bugs or scratching in the dirt to notice silent death plummeting from the sky.

What they needed was something to keep an eye out for them.

It wasn’t long after the chickens moved out back that we had our third loss. This time, it was Robyn’s favorite chicken, our little white silkie female. We bought her up at Dog Days when she was just a few days old, and she was always kind of special to us because she looked so cool. Silkies aren’t the best layers, but they’re far and away the best mothers, and will hatch and raise nearly anything. We looked forward to seeing her lead a bunch of mutt chicks around the yard right up until the day I got home from work and found what was left of her under the big oak tree, surrounded by a spray of downy feathers.

The white chickens are the easiest targets, of course, because they’re so visible. Spotting a hawk was probably even harder for her because the feathers on her head poofed out a little. Not like the featherheads, but enough to block the view up. Based on the location of her body, I suspect the hawk was just sitting in the oak tree — right next to the coop, where they hang out — waiting for a tasty meal to wander by. I doubt she ever had a chance.

We did more than just talk after the silkie was killed. I started researching ways to repel hawks: hanging CDs, so the light will reflect off them and spook hawks; stringing wire over the chicken yard so the hawks would see it and not dive; putting up stuff for cover. I didn’t really like any of these ideas, though. The first two were really infeasible due to the size of the chicken yard. Can you imagine trying to run a 200 foot string to hang CDs from, or wires going all the way across the back forty? All that would have to be high enough that I could go under it while in the truck or on the tractor. Yuck. The third option was just as bad to me, because all those shelters would require extra time when cutting the grass, to maneuver and trim around them. It already takes me most of a day to cut the yard (or three after-work days), and now we’re talking about adding even more time to that? I like cutting the grass, but I don’t need a second full-time job.

I started making noise about a guardian dog to live out back among the chickens and protect them. I’ll admit I wasn’t keen on the idea, because we’ve tried having dogs twice before, with poor results. I like dogs well enough, but not as much as some other animals (cats, for example). I was leery, despite the fact that I’ve been teasing Robyn for some time about getting a puppy. Much in the same way I tease about getting goats — it’s fun to think about, but down deep I didn’t really want either.

I started halfheartedly checking on PetFinder, and discovered something pretty quickly: groups that rescue guardian dogs — dogs that have been bred for thousands of years to stand guard over flocks and protect them, able to make protection decisions about predators without human intervention — are almost violently opposed to having those dogs do the sort of jobs for which they were born.

No farms, some said.

We will not allow our rescues to be working dogs, just pets, from others.

We adopt out to indoor homes only, said one. We’re talking about dogs that weigh 100 pounds or more here.

We didn’t need another pet. We needed something to do a job, something that would defend its flock to the death if need be. Not that we have a lot of dog-killing predators around here, but you know what I mean. Something to stop the hawk attacks, and to deter any two-legged predators that might have a hankering for fresh chicken.

After days of looking, I found a working dog rescue in Nashville that did want their dogs to work. I was put in contact with a woman who had a pair of Great Pyrenees siblings, about 18 months old, that worked well with goats and sheep, but had never been around chickens. The woman was going to try them around chickens for a week or so, then talk with me about us adopting them. There were a couple of catches, though.

First, the dogs cost $250. Each. You’d think after as much money as we’ve spent on fencing and building materials that another $500 wouldn’t matter, but it did. As I told Robyn, it pained me to spend $1000 (dogs + house + supplies) to protect some $3 chickens. I like our chickens a lot, but ultimately, they’re chickens.

Second, the female of the pair had tested heartworm positive. The woman planned to not treat the heartworms, but to instead continue preventative ivermectin injections until the heartworms died off of old age. She would be happy to treat the dog if I wanted, of course, for an additional $300.

I continued my research, and discovered that there were other things that might work to protect the chickens from hawks: donkeys, alpacas, geese, and even turkeys. I joked with Robyn about donkeys and alpacas, but we never seriously talked about getting either. I was willing to try geese and turkeys, and we even went to Lacon one Saturday a few weeks ago to look. We found both but bought neither, because I could tell Robyn really didn’t want to. She was once bitten on the ass by a goose and has been scared of them ever since, even though she’ll lie and tell you she’s not scared. She’s not against having turkeys, but wants us to raise them instead of getting grown ones.

On the way home from Lacon that day, we took the long way, and made a stop in Hartselle and another in Decatur so I could look at keyboards. The musical kind, not the computer kind. I’ve missed having something around to bang on (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID) sinc ewe sold the Clavinova, and I still have this dream of learning to play for real. I found a keyboard (well, a digital piano, really) I liked a lot in Decatur, a Yamaha DGX-625, but it was almost $1000 and if I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m cheap.

While we were in Decatur, we stopped at the animal shelter to look at the dogs, on the off chance that they might have something that came from a livestock guarding situation. They didn’t. The closest thing they had was a blue heeler, which they tried to push on us as a guardian, but it isn’t. The heeler is a herding dog, not a livestock guardian dog. Big difference.

Before going home, we swung through Otisburg for Chinese takeout, and on the way out I pointed to the American Classifieds sitting in a rack by the door.

“You should check in there for guardian dogs,” I said.

Robyn took one, and before we’d even made it home she found an ad from someone with Great Pyrenees puppies for $50 each.

“You should call him and see if we can come see them,” she said.

But I didn’t do that right away. I hemmed and hawed, because I still wasn’t completely sold on the idea of dogs. After a couple of hours of my usual dithering, I finally made the call to Tennessee.

He had three puppies, about 4.5 months old and purebred. Even better, they were from a working line, not a pet or show line. Best of all, they lived around chickens (and goats) already. I talked with him about us coming to see them, but he lived two hours away and dark was only three. Worse predators than hawks come out after dark, things like raccoons and possums that will kill a coopful of chickens just to kill them. I’m fanatical about being home at dusk to shut the coop.

The man with the puppies wouldn’t be available to show them on Sunday because of church commitments, so we made tentative plans for Robyn and I to visit the following Saturday to see them. He told me that I was the first call he’d gotten since placing the ad, so I thought they’d still be there, but still told him not to hold the puppies for us.

Robyn wanted the puppies pretty bad. It’s funny when you think about it, because of the two of us, she’s always been the less-dog-liking one, and now she was being pushy about it. When I told her that I told the man we’d come see them the following week, she nearly threw a tantrum.

I left her in the house and went out back to see the chickens. As I walked toward the yard, a Cooper’s hawk that had been sitting in the oak tree over the coop took flight across the field, where it lit in another tree. I jogged out toward it, making noise and trying to scare it off. It wouldn’t be scared, and instead just flew to another tree. I chased it to three different trees before giving up and going inside for a gun.

Not to shoot it, of course, but to see if a louder noise would scare it. I had to fire the .22 three times before the hawk finally left the yard.

I went inside and called the man with the Great Pyr puppies.

“We’d like two of them, please,” I said. “A boy and a girl.”

I ironed out a plan with the man to meet him in Fayetteville the following Friday afternoon to pick out our puppies. The next several days were a flurry of activity, with me running an electrified strand of wire around the chicken yard to prevent digging, buying supplies, and getting the back forty ready for a couple more inhabitants. We also did a lot of fretting during that time, mostly of the I hope we’re not making a big mistake variety.

In the six days between Saturday and Friday, we got over ten inches of rain and didn’t see the sun once…until Friday when we were driving to Fayetteville. The sky cleared and the sun came out, and it was like an omen. We met the man at the co-op just outside Fayetteville, and

Say hello to George (left) and Gracie

 

When we got home with the dogs — who rode (quietly and politely) in the back seat of the truck, despite our having taken two big carriers up there for them — we took them straight to the chicken yard and let them out. They seemed to take right to their new home, perfectly at ease with the chickens. About thirty minutes after we put them out there, a small clump of chickens broke off from the others and headed for the far back corner. Gracie went after them, circled them, and flushed them back to the larger group.

The next day, I was out there with them when a hawk swooped out of a perimeter tree and came in toward the chickens, flying low. Gracie tore out after it with George right on her heels, both barking furiously.

The hawk decided it had better places to be, and vacated the premises immediately.

I knew right then we’d made the right decision.

The last thing I’d like a hawk to see.

 

Watching someone walk by out on the street.
No barking at something that far away, but definite interest.

 

Gracie, acting like a puppy.

 

George has a regal look about him, with his big square muzzle like a polar bear…

 

…while Gracie has the rounder, softer (prettier?) face.

 

Gracie submits to the pack leader.

 

A few days after we got them, Robyn was out in the chicken yard gathering eggs when two people snuck up on her. Okay, they didn’t really sneak, they just walked out there to see if she had any eggs to sell and she didn’t see them coming. The dogs were half in the coop with her and didn’t see the people either, but when Robyn noticed them and gasped, the dogs raced over to the gate, barking like hell at the strangers.

I suspect they’ll keep the two-legged predators at bay.

I had one of our egg customers walk out to the chicken yard, to see how the dogs would react when I told them he was okay. They barked at first, but stopped when I spoke to them, and Gracie made sure to keep herself between the man and the chickens. She’s definitely the better guardian, and leads when it comes to that. George has the deeper, scarier bark, and he’s right there with her once she takes the lead.

Hanging out with the chickies in the just chopped leaves.

 

With the flock.

 

The dogs generally ignore the chickens unless there’s a threat or the chickens get too close to the dog food. In the event of a threat, the dogs might do a little herding, but mostly just keep an eye on both the threat and the birds. If the chickens get too close to something the dogs are eating, the dogs will chase them off. Not barking or snapping or showing aggression, just a little bit of a lunge to scatter the chickens.

I did witness something unusual this past Friday, when George got very interested in one particular Amish chicken. He followed it around the oak tree, keeping a close eye on it, until it settled down with the other chickens dust bathing there (the Amish chicken was completely ignoring George). Once it settled in, George walked over and:

“Tag, you’re it!”

 

The chicken squawked and ran off, and George completely lost interest. I sure wish I knew what he was doing when he laid his paw on the chicken. I think he may have wanted to play, but he might have been teaching the chicken a lesson from some prior incident I didn’t see. There was no aggression in his move; it was very casual. Right before he raised his paw, he bowed in the classic “let’s play” move that dogs do.

We’ve had the dogs about 3.5 weeks now, and we (mostly) joke that they’re the best $100 we’ve ever spent. They’ve chased off numerous hawks, and just now as I was working on this entry (it’s actually Sunday morning as I write) they ran off two more. As they chased, Gracie actually jumped up, trying to get the hawk, which was 30 or more feet above her. After the hawks were gone, the dogs circled the coop (the chickens were all under it, hiding) several times, looking to the skies.

Home sweet home

 

In the week before we got the dogs, we bought them a large Dogloo, which they completely ignored. I built the house above in a couple of afternoons (I’m getting pretty quick with the whole building thing), for $40 less than the dogloo cost. At four feet by six feet, it’s a lot bigger, too. They both sleep in it on occasion, but George seems to like sleeping out on the ground more. I’ve found him out there some mornings with frost in his fur, happy as a clam.

We returned the Dogloo a couple of weeks ago, and I got lectured by the Petco employee on how to get a dog to go into a new dog house by using treats. I’d like to point out here that I didn’t have to use any treats to get them into the house I built.

Working and happy.

 

The dogs have performed beyond our wildest dreams. Hell, I spoke so glowingly about them over at Homesteading Today that someone there went and took the third one. Make no mistake, though: they are not pets, even though I’m guilty of sometimes treating them as such. They’re workers, and they have a job to do. So far, they’re doing it better than we thought possible. What makes it more amazing is that they’re still over a year away from being mature, when their guardian instincts will really show.

We sure do like our poopsies.

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Santa Fred ended up bringing me a Yamaha DGX-625 for Christmas after all, only a factory refurbished one from eBay that came with free shipping and cost several hundred dollars less than the new one I looked at in Decatur.

 

I have no skillz, but I sure have fun.

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