Foxes Chickens Holidays and Death

Another rooster bites the dust.

We came back from our beach holiday to three unsettling discoveries.

First, Trevor the cock was gone.  A monster of a bird, tall, proud, determined, confident.  We were away for only a week but that's all it took and two years into a good life Trevor was no more.  Not just the rooster but something took all of the flock.

Second, the freezer was open and everything spoiled, a pool of viscous sticky liquid -- a gross mix of water, ice cream, juice from left overs dating back to the 1990's and assorted other sauces -- sluiced over the wood floor.

Finally, the bikes on the porch were still there but were knocked over.

Figuring out what happened to the birds was easy. Foxes are wily and quick.  The fox probably was bringing meat to her den for her pups -- pretty much what we do too so it is hard to sustain anger.  In a quick night attack she left nothing behind but a trail of feathers.

It took a few days but we solved the mystery of the open freezer.  Of course when going on vacation we worry about the ordinary mistakes -- is the iron on or the oven on, did we forget something unforgettable, did we leave the dog in the basement -- but I have never worried about leaving the freezer open.  No one admitted to even going near the freezer before departure.  Would a miscreant break into a house only to crack the freezer open? Tip over some bikes?  I mean, that's mischief but it's too refined, too subtle.

We have a swimming hole behind the house.  We have good friends.  They used the swimming hole, checked the house, grabbed a beer and grabbed some ice.  Damn.  The open freezer is now a closed case.

We solved the mystery of the fallen bikes as well, but first a silver lining:  The silver lining appeared yesterday morning.  One hen, a five and a half year old Rhode Island Red, a hen the kids named Rosie, returned.  She stood like a statue on the lawn.  She was in shock, lonely -- lost even -- but alive and physically well.  Those first days back Rosie wanted nothing to do with the barn.  She was trying to perch on the handlebars of the bikes on the porch, making them tip and fall.

So at least we know what happened and, as for the melted stuff in the freezer, we have perspective.

Trevor is gone.  He was regal and good.  He was the calmest rooster we've ever had the honor to complain about incessantly.  He crowed proudly, long and often.  He was a beautiful Dominique, a credit to his breed.

Can't cry over spilled decade old tomato sauce when your rooster's been killed.

Rest in Peace Trevor.  You will be missed.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2012 David Rocchio