I know that this happens to everyone who keeps chickens. But it happened to us, and we took pictures.
During breakfast Saturday morning, I saw a huge hawk sweeping down over the yard. We ran outside. Quickly, we put up the chickens in their tractors. We couldn't find Mrs. Tableson. She had been alone on her nest in the garden grass when he made her his prey. We realized that he was sitting on the fence at the back of the yard, and that it was a red-tailed hawk.
(4 to 5-foot wingspan)
Then we noticed the body, the gizzard, and all of the feathers. The hawk had been sitting on the fence looking over his victim. After we got some pictures and chased him off, we decided to bury her. Through anger and tears, Precious dictated the grave marker: "Grave... NO Hawks! Here lies Mrs. Tableson 2009-2010. God loves Mrs. Tableson. Precious hopes that Mrs. Tableson will come back to life. P.S. News for God." There was more, but that was what fit on the marker.
When I looked in on the Silkies again, I saw Mr. Tableson and Honey sitting in the grass, perfectly still. No pecking or scratching, just sitting. Mrs. Rumphius was still brooding in the roost. A while later, I heard Mr. Tableson calling his mate with a saddened distress call. He sounded grieved that his hen wasn't responding and running back to him with her head ducked down.
During breakfast Saturday morning, I saw a huge hawk sweeping down over the yard. We ran outside. Quickly, we put up the chickens in their tractors. We couldn't find Mrs. Tableson. She had been alone on her nest in the garden grass when he made her his prey. We realized that he was sitting on the fence at the back of the yard, and that it was a red-tailed hawk.
(4 to 5-foot wingspan)
Then we noticed the body, the gizzard, and all of the feathers. The hawk had been sitting on the fence looking over his victim. After we got some pictures and chased him off, we decided to bury her. Through anger and tears, Precious dictated the grave marker: "Grave... NO Hawks! Here lies Mrs. Tableson 2009-2010. God loves Mrs. Tableson. Precious hopes that Mrs. Tableson will come back to life. P.S. News for God." There was more, but that was what fit on the marker.
When I looked in on the Silkies again, I saw Mr. Tableson and Honey sitting in the grass, perfectly still. No pecking or scratching, just sitting. Mrs. Rumphius was still brooding in the roost. A while later, I heard Mr. Tableson calling his mate with a saddened distress call. He sounded grieved that his hen wasn't responding and running back to him with her head ducked down.
Then, just before we left for the day, we heard the Mr. Tableson making a racket again. This time, the hawk had come back and was sitting on the Silkies' tractor. I walked back over, chased him off, and put a stricken Mrs. Rumphius back on her eggs. Earlier in the week, I had taken one of those eggs from Mrs. Tableson's nest. If it turns out to be a female, we'll call her Miss T, or Misty. Mrs. Rumphius is keeping the eggs warm like a good mama.
Later in the day, Precious explained to us that it was okay for the hawk to take Mrs. Tableson. This was because the hawk was a mama hawk, and she had to take care of her family. Monday, she asked me if I thought the hawk would feel sorry for taking Mrs. Tableson. I replied that a hawk likes a chicken dinner just as well as the rest of us. This was right before we sat down to a meal of roasted chicken. I think the point was made. She's learning about the food chain.
It just seemed wrong to reward the hawk by letting him pick at our hen in her own yard. And so we buried her right next to her à la Jemima Puddleduck nest. The hen who had the fate that Jemima probably would have had if Nature had written the story, and not Beatrix Potter.
Later in the day, Precious explained to us that it was okay for the hawk to take Mrs. Tableson. This was because the hawk was a mama hawk, and she had to take care of her family. Monday, she asked me if I thought the hawk would feel sorry for taking Mrs. Tableson. I replied that a hawk likes a chicken dinner just as well as the rest of us. This was right before we sat down to a meal of roasted chicken. I think the point was made. She's learning about the food chain.
It just seemed wrong to reward the hawk by letting him pick at our hen in her own yard. And so we buried her right next to her à la Jemima Puddleduck nest. The hen who had the fate that Jemima probably would have had if Nature had written the story, and not Beatrix Potter.
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