Yesterday morning I looked out the back door and noticed black all over the sea of pristine, white snow. What could it be? ...Feathers. You have got to be kidding me!?! Shasta ate one our chickens??
I put on my coat to go outside and assess (and document) the damage.
My poor beautiful chicken has been snatched. I followed the evidence (i.e. feathers ) around the to the front of the house and found this!
Bad dog! Bad dog! He was chewing on a bone! I didn't give him a bone... but it looked too big to be a chicken bone. Still... Bad dog! I knew he did it!
He was SOOO guilty!
Stern and I are peacefully eating breakfast together when I look out the back window.
"Stern... those look like red feathers out there this morning. Did Shasta kill another chicken??" He couldn't have. He was locked up all night.
The plot thickens.
Aaron trekked outside to assess the damage this time. There were no footprints. Here's what he found.... holes blasted in our yard, grain and feathers all over. What the...
There were three of these bombs out there! Who's blowing up my chickens!?!
Stupid, stupid eagles. They swooped in and hit my little chickens so hard they exploded (hence grain all over the ground... hadn't quite been digested) and then flew off with them.
As I surveyed the feathers everywhere I looked to my right and my heart sank.
Mr. Rooster. The best rooster. He fought a good fight. His black and white feathers were all over next to each of the hens' slaughtering holes. He fought those eagles but in the end was no match for their brute strength. They did not even give him the honor of being eaten... just death for protecting his brood. He was a fighter. We will bury him next to Little Crackers (if we can break through the frozen ground).