Off with their heads!

You know, I used to be such a kind hearted person. Truly, I was. Vegetarian for fifteen years, no fur, save the whales, don’t step on ants, pick up worms from the sidewalk after a rainstorm and put them back on the grass…a real softie.

Then, I got chickens.

It used to be that seeing roadkill would genuinely upset me. Now, I check to see what manner of beast it is, before having a reaction. If it is a raccoon, a possum, or a fox, my inner voice no longer wails; it cheers, “YES. One less predator.” Rabidly anti-gun, I am now willing to consider getting an air gun, in case I need to chase something off.

How the wheel has turned.

And it doesn’t just stop with predators. I have been running a catch and release program for mice in our Victorian farmhouse for over three years. I have shuddered each and every time The Man sets traps and drowns the victims in the morning. I have saved them from my blood-thirsty felines and relocated them to the woods.

No more. I want them DEAD. All of them. Tortured beforehand, preferably. I have HAD it.

Yesterday:
The Man: Hey, I saw one of those mice in the barn. They’re really big.
Me: REALLY. No shit.

To clean or not to clean? has been the poop pit question, but that question is now moot. The poop pit, under normal conditions, fills with poop, then miraculously recedes to about 50 percent full. It’s quite amazing. I watched it all last summer, sure that the day of reckoning was nigh, and then, a week later, the levels would be down. But…HOW?!

I’m no scientist, but I can only assume that decomposition was the reason. Decomposition and dehydration, shrinking the poop, and lowering the level in the pit.

But not now. Now the pit is in imminent need of emptying, and the levels aren’t going down. Furthermore, it’s not piled high in the center and low on the sides the way it has always been, but an even depth all around. But…WHY??!!

The fooking mice.

I’m sure, were I to take a cross-section of the poop pit, it would look like an ant farm. They have been working (and eating) the contents of the pit, making what must be quite the network of tunnels.

It. Drives. Me. CRAZY.

So, ready or not, here I come, supermice. I was prepared to put up with you, truly, I was. My loins were girded and my bootstraps were pulled. But you have just eaten and tunneled yourselves out of a home.

Moving day is coming…

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2 thoughts on “Off with their heads!

  1. LOL

    I am the exact same way! I was always reduced to tears when seeing an animal suffer in any way. After I got chickens, I was driving with my dad in the car. He hit the BIGGEST raccoon EVER and my Mom, fiancée and father all went silent, awaiting my reaction (because I am such a known softy.) I felt glad. Am I a monster? That was one less predator to worry about. If it wasn’t my livestock, it would have been someone else’s. It died instantly, but my mom was the one crying, not me. I guess I didn’t see it die, I just felt the huge thud.

    I once stopped an entire highway to let a beaver pass. Honest to God! At least beavers won’t eat my chickens!

    I say off with their heads as well! Though I would still not want to be the one who did the deed.

  2. Yes, threaten the feathery babies and we turn ruthless. I also now have an air gun after one of my hens was attacked by a mystery predator, probably a raccoon. We’ve turned our yard into a bit of a fortified compound with chain-link fencing to keep out non-chickens. I have become a worm predator on their behalf – I used to move worms off the driveway after rain, but now I sometimes pick them up to give the hens as a treat.

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