If you haven't read "Chicken Dance," you'll want to read that first for some insight into my dealings with poultry. You'll better appreciate this installment of Snippets if you do.

My family acquired fourteen chickens at the beginning of this year. Now we have seven. The reduction in forces can be attributed to one factor. But before I tell you what that factor is, let me spend some time building up to it for awhile. Several weeks ago, I walked down to the coop early in the morning, as I'm apt to do before leaving for work. A gruesome scene awaited. We had decided about a week before to start letting one of our laying hens sit on a clutch of eggs so we could get a new batch of chicks to join the gang. A very motherly looking white hen had accepted the assignment and was dutifully brooding fourteen beautiful cream-colored orbs. We were very excited at the prospect of doubling our chicken numbers in one fowl swoop, never anticipating the road this venture would lead us down.

When I walked up to the coop, I saw the screen on the door had been torn quite a bit and white feathers were scattered all around the opening. Entering the coop, I found more feathers. Where the white hen had been sitting, there were fourteen eggs still intact, but quite motherless. Something had hauled her off. Fortunately, before I had much time to worry about their fate, another hen took on the role of surrogate mother and began sitting on them pronto. By the next morning, the pinch sitter had met the same fate as her predecessor. This time, the culprit left his calling card - the remains of his midnight snack sitting in the middle of the coop. In this case, it consisted of a wing. After this second killing, no chicken dared sit on the eggs again. I couldn't blame them.

The eggs didn't survive since no hen would volunteer. They had to be thrown out, and we decided to let another hen give it a go. This was not to be, as chickens began to be picked off one by one on a nightly basis. Each time it happened, I would ritually examine the coop top to bottom and side to side to find any possible entry way for the assassin. I would usually find some small opening that I deemed too small for any serious threat to be getting in, but I would seal it up anyway…just in case. Of course, we began trying to guess what animal might be doing this. Asking friends brought us guesses such as opossums, foxes, dogs, raccoons, and even fishers (weasel-like animals). A representative from the local farmer's co-op insisted it was one of these little-known fishers. From the beginning, I was convinced it had to be a raccoon.

Our attempts to stop the nightly invasions began with borrowing a live
trap and baiting it with all kinds of tasty treats. The trap would often be disturbed, but no sign of entry could be detected. As the killings increased in frequency, I decided to step it up a notch and be more offensive. I contemplated staying up all night near the coop with my trusty Remington at the ready by my side. When I ran this idea by my "save the chickens" advisory board, a consensus to use a shotgun was reached. This would provide a strategic advantage over a rifle as the spread of the ammunition would allow for less precision should I go berserk whilst trying to dispatch my target in the dark. Plus it would be hard to shoot a long gun and hold a flashlight at the same time. Since my wife and I just welcomed a baby girl into our family last week, staying up all night was not foreign to me, but I didn't care to do it by my own choice. My wife suggested a compromise. When the baby woke up to eat during the night, I could quietly sneak down to the coop and hopefully catch the enemy before he struck. This I did.

Just about midnight on Sunday, I was awakened by my two-year-old crying for water. After getting him settled again, I found myself pretty awake. I decided to head to the coop to check on my flock. I picked up my little LED flashlight and my .45 pistol with six rounds of hollow-points loaded. I didn't plan on having to take a wild shot in the dark should I come upon the intruder, so I figured the .45 would be adequate and easier to handle. As I walked down the hill towards the coop, I shined the light ahead of me so I could see it as soon as I was close enough. As I got closer, I saw what looked like a dark figure on top of the brooding box. Next I saw two yellow, glowing eyes. Finally, I figured out that it was indeed a raccoon. A big raccoon. Full-grown, masked face, four housecat sized raccoon.


My pulse quickened, and sweat formed on my palms and back. I slowly approached the coop door, never letting the flashlight beam leave his face. His eyes followed me intently. He didn't budge as he traced my path. As I opened the door, I saw all seven chickens roosting in the rafters. The coon was a few feet behind them at about the same height. As I entered, he began to move away along the fencing that surrounds the upper perimeter of the coop. I continued to pursue him slowly, finally cornering him in the rear rafters. Here is where the crisis arose. My intent was to find out where the animal was getting into the coop before getting rid of him. The idea of staying up all night and watching him enter would allow me to prevent future predators access. Since I didn't see where the beast got in, I would have to spook him out to find his secret passage.

I squatted in the coop with both light and gun pointed at the raccoon. His yellow eyes pierced me unflinchingly. He was situated broadside to me providing an almost un-missable target. I wouldn't worry about his route of entry, I decided, I'd just put a stop to the chicken killer. I was less than five feet from him. The safety clicked off. I took aim. I took a deep breath and slowly released it while beginning to depress the trigger. I hesitated and released the trigger. The safety clicked on. I decided to give him a chance to leave the coop not only so that I could see where he was getting in, but also something inside of me didn't feel right about annihilating this animal when there seemed to be no chance of survival for him. I knew I could kill him with one shot if I chose. But I had other concerns - scaring the snot out of my neighbors with the roar of my Taurus PT 745 at 12:30 in the morning, and damaging my own hearing since I was wearing no ear protection.

I retreated nearby to the picnic table to think. Occasionally I would flick on the light and see that the raccoon was still in the same place. Time dragged on. I tried to think of some way to get him out. The two morals that warred within me were saving my chickens from future demise and giving the raccoon a sporting chance by allowing him to make a break for it. Several times I re-entered the coop with the pistol, determined to end our little stalemate. Each time I couldn't bring myself to do it, and I went back to attempting to spook him from his roost. I finally resorted to strategies involving an elaborate mixture of an old, broken hoe handle, eight feet of PVC pipe, and a pitchfork. Trying to roust him only led to much snarling and gnashing on his part and much yelping and falling down on my part. I never fully realized how vicious coons can be until I began beating one about the head with ¾" PVC. As my cell phone's clock registered 3 AM, I knew that the standoff had to end.

I ratcheted the fear factor up a notch and determined not to let the raccoon get a moment's rest. Every time he would move to a different location, I'd jostle it from the outside with one of my three weapons causing him to scurry elsewhere. After about 20 minutes of running all around the coop shaking PVC, jabbing handles, stabbing pitchforks, and hollering like an idiot, a breakthrough came. I heard the distinct sound of him dropping to the hay below. This meant that for the first time in three hours, he wasn't on the wall or in the rafters, but had finally gotten to the floor. I knew this was my chance. I darted to the front of the coop, but he was nowhere to be seen and I didn't hear a sound. I cautiously investigated the area with my gun drawn. I can't explain how, but in a matter of seconds, he was long gone. There was no trace of him even having been there. A co-worker reminded me about the "ghost coon" from Where the Red Fern Grows. I think he's made it to East Tennessee.

After relaying this story to numerous acquaintances, I've had many chances to review the night's activity afresh and consider what motivated me to choose the plan of action I did. Although there was at least a handful of reasons to not the shoot the critter when I had the chance, only one stands out. I've never purposefully killed anything bigger than a bug in my life. Although I am a casual fan of firearms and outdoor sports, I've never hunted anything. It was actually exceptionally difficult to bring myself to pull that trigger.

In the Gospel of Luke, the story of the Good Samaritan is found. To summarize, a Jew (avowed enemy of the Samaritan people) is beaten and robbed along a rural road. Two fellow Jews pass him by without offering to help him before a third traveler, a Samaritan, has compassion on him and puts his love into action. He field dresses his wounds, puts him in his own saddle, and accompanies him on foot to a nearby inn. There, he pays for a room for the injured man and tells the innkeeper that he will pay any additional cost that the man incurs when he comes back through the town again at a later date.

I wonder if the infamous "Good Samaritan" was torn between two moral principles like I was that Sunday night. Remain true to his heritage and leave the adversary to his own fate, or treat him as a fellow man that deserved an act of compassion. In my own dilemma, half of me wanted revenge on that evil raccoon for decimating my chicken population and depleting my precious egg supply. The other half wanted to spare the poor creature from his demise at my hand since he was certainly only following his Creator's design for his survival. I just happened to be supplying the easiest source of food for him.

Since our three-hour game of tag that night, I haven't seen any sign of the coon around the coop. I guess he's scared off at least for now. If we meet again, I may choose another plan of action, but until then I will be left to contemplate the implications of my choice.

Have an opinion on which path I should take? Tell me about it in the comments below.