Two weeks ago Kali had her first play date with some kids she had related to at Shenandoah Valley Community School, and who live not too far from us (their parents are CSA and market gardeners…we’ve got a lot in common!)
As they were about to leave, we were checking out the chickens. One of the kids was enjoying counting the different kinds (I think it was Kali). The number she came up with for Silver Laced Wyandottes was 3. Hmm. I checked, because the number should be 5. As usual, my daughter’s observation was reliable. 3 it was.
Because the coop had to be perched on top of frozen hunks of snow, and a bit of melting had occurred during the day, a gap had opened under the fence, and two chickens had apparently escaped. I was not bothered by this insult to the customary order of things (I try not to be like that), and nor was I concerned about catching them again (I’m pretty good at that). I was, however, mildly worried because I had no idea where they were, and dark was approaching.
After they left, Kali and I took a spin around the property, eventually finding one of the hens after she emerged into broad daylight to merrily scratch in the grass. She was easily apprehended and returned to safety. The other one was still missing, and it happened to be the best hen of that breed that we had. I suspected that she was still in one tangled thicket or other (there are plenty to choose from), but she managed to evade my eyesight. As darkness descended, snow began to fall, and I wished she were under the roof of her coop, perched in a warm row with the others. All I could do was hope the owls and foxes would also fail to notice her.
Not so. As I was walking along the driveway in the morning through a fresh inch of snow, a set of animal tracks caught my attention. They looked like tiny dog tracks (with the nail prints visible), except that they were in a line like a cat's would be. Appearing beside the prints was a steady linear depression, like a lopsided tail drag. Just exactly what you'd expect to see if a fox had drug a chicken carcass off during the night. I wanted to make sure, so I followed the tracks forward (I lost the trail as it entered the woods) and then backwards, where a few chunks of flesh and a few smatterings of feathers gave me a pretty good indication of the way things had gone. I could see where she had roosted, and though I didn't know whether the Cooper's hawk I had seen taking off from that general area earlier in the morning had been the first on the scene or if it had all been the fox's doing, the moral of the story is that she was eaten during the night or near first light.
I was pretty sad. In one sense, it's not reasonable to be sad about that, because I eat my chickens often and with little (though some) sadness. Perhaps it's sort of selfish to begrudge my fellow meat-eaters a place at the table. The fact is I do not attach moral significance to this kill. The hawk and/or fox are just finding sustenance in the most skillful ways they know. Somehow I just don't like seeing her meet her end in that way. I sort of make a deal with any animal I bring into the world that I will provide for their comfort and safety for as long as I judge them to be of use to me, and that when the time comes I will do my best to respect them in practical ways at their time of passing. This is partly anthropomorphism, I know, and nature has no such scruples. It's just how I work out the relationships that cannot help but arise when farming animals, and I felt sad when it seemed I had let her down. I'm o.k. now. So is she.
Barriers (fencing included) are one way we arrange for peaceful co-existence with our natural antagonists of whatever kind. Sometimes that reality comes home rather dramatically.
The other evening, Kali got a bee in her bonnet to learn about the major fixtures and appliances in our home. We discussed refrigerators and freezers first, opening up the utility compartment of the freezer to see the compressor, etc. Then we were onto ovens, then sinks, then toilets. As we were discussing and discovering water pressure from gravity versus mechanical systems, there came a point when I wanted to show her where the water comes into the house from the crawl space. It was easy enough to do, because the pipe comes in right under the little wooden box on which sits our toilet brush and extra toilet paper. In the back of my mind was the knowledge that removing this box violates one such peace-keeping barrier in our home, but I have done so often without incident.
This time was different. I nonchalantly lifted away the box (which has always simply been setting in that location, held there by its own weight), let out a loud "WHOA!" and hastily slammed it back into position before the cute little blacksnake hibernating under the pipe could get any ideas about waking up and scurrying under the washer or making a break for the bedroom.
This is the kind of thing you hate to tell your wife about, but I knew she had to know. So, the perfect solution arose: allow Kali to tell her, of course! It took some time to convince Janelle (and her mom, who was staying with us for the weekend) that Kali was referring to a literally true event, but when reality sunk in it was quickly decided that the box must be firmly affixed in place, with screws, that evening, starting now. The work was, of course, completed efficiently and without complaint.
The box, you see, is open to the plumbing chase, which is contiguous with the roof cavity, which is, from a mouse or snake's perspective, contiguous with the great outdoors. With the advent of renovations accompanying the construction of the in-law quarters on our place, the peace-keeping barrier will be moved outward, such that critters will find entry to the roof cavities impossible. That will be nice.
Barriers have their limits. That statement could be from the Department of Redundancy Department, but it's intended to mean that choosing a barrier for negotiating a relationship with a possibly antagonistic force isn't always the most advantageous. Agriculturally and otherwise, we westerners tend to think in terms of barriers. We lock our doors, seal our borders, mend our fences, put up our "keep off" signs, wear latex gloves, blast our food and homes with noxious chemicals, caulk the joints, etc. etc. It makes the thinking and planning simple for linear, if-then minds.
But every creature, western or no, depends on an earth ecology that is characterized not by barriers and eradication, but by webs of mutual support, interdependence, tolerance, and modulation. We would do well to open our minds to the reality of the ecology on which we depend, so that we can better choose where barriers are appropriate and sensible solutions, but also recognize when they are doing more harm than good, or causing unintended consequences.
This is part of why I am currently enrolled in a Permaculture Design Course put on by the Blue Ridge Permaculture Network. Four weekends of input and a team design project seem as if they will get me on my way to capably accounting for a multiplicity of forces and factors in arranging our living and production patterns and systems here at home. The course is set up to qualify us for creating designs with/for others as well, though that is not specifically why I'm taking the course. I recommend the Permaculture Principles website to anyone who is intrigued by this notion and wishes to know more: http://permacultureprinciples.com/
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