Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Fowl Whisperer
Another "farm fact" I learned from my folks' having chickens: the chickens make a specific sound that, once you learn it, identifies the threat they perceive. "Snake" is one, "cat", whether bobcat or feral domestic, another, "rat" is unique, "fox, coyote and dog" are all one, and "hawk" is a very specific noise, followed by dropping to the ground, head down, I assume to make a harder target. I know the females with chicks also spread their wings and the chicks race under them.
We had a gigantic Rhode Island Red rooster, "Big Red" naturally, who we loaned out to the local college and thespians when they needed a scene involving fowl. He was locally famous for pulling out of a kid's hands onstage at the community college, and walking the perimeter of the stage staring at the audience, followed by an incredible chase scene which he'd have won if my brother hadn't had a cast net in his car. The other thing Red featured was 2" spurs on his legs. He had killed a feral cat with them; I had to pull the spurs out of its skull when they stuck. A neighbor's White Leghorn rooster had come over to expand his mating base, and Red almost beheaded him. Since he bled out well, Mom made fried chicken. I made Foghorn Leghorn voices all through dinner.
Anyway, the first time I heard the "hawk" warning, I had NO idea. Suddenly the hens were down, and Red was six feet in the air, upside down, his spurs making clicking noises as he tried to impale the hawk as it came into view. The hawk, for his part, spread his wings, which made an audible popping sound, and flapped hard for height to get away from the spurs. He made it by inches. He made another sound I'd never heard, and the hens got up and began foraging again. A few minutes later, Red made the "hawk" call himself, the females dropped, and again, he met the hawk upside down in midair. It was even closer this time, which seemed to inspire both birds to continue. I went in the house, got the .22, and told Mom there was a hawk after her chickens.
"See if you can scare it off instead of kill it," she suggested. Mom liked hawks.
Happily, he set himself up. He was sitting on a dried branch high up in a yellow pine tree.
When the bullet smacked the branch, it blew into powder, the bullet slammed into the tree so I didn't have to worry about hitting anyone far away, and the hawk make a most chicken-like squawk as he went tumbling down through the pine needles. When he ran out of branches, he had a good 15 feet left to fall, so he got his wings going and got the hell out of dodge.
Mission accomplished, all birds alive and well. And now I spoke fluent Chicken.
