Chickens in Newalla

We moved to Newalla in the great state of Oklahoma in December 2007 - December 7th, 2007, to be exact. On December 10th, the Big Ice Storm of 2007 struck central Oklahoma, and Newalla is smack dab in the center of central Oklahoma. We thought it was Pearl Harbor all over again. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that we will still be cleaning up the property when the next election comes around, or when impeachment proceedings are held, whichever comes last.

Before we moved, Pam was a lover of nature. She loved the cute little squirrels and the rascally little racoons and the sweet little bunnies. She approached me after a few months on the property and demanded I get her a gun. Apparently, she no longer looks upon the pecan-stealing, chicken-killing, tomato-eating vermin with the same regard she once did.

We thought about having some pigs - not just those run-of-the-mill regular pigs, but because we like BBQ, we wanted to raise some of those pigs that had those spare ribs. We figure two or three pigs would do, depending on how long it would take for them to grow some more spare ribs once they were harvested.

Pam wanted to color coordinate her farmage. She wanted black and white cows, black and white pigs, black and white chickens. She likes the color purple so she planted some lavendar. But when the tomatoes ripened they clashed with the lavendar, so she pulled up the tomatoes.

We have some apple trees on the property. The first year the apples disappeared and we concluded that deer and other animals were eating them. So, this year, Pam put up a scare crow near the apple trees. She used PVC pipe to make the skeleton, used a bucket for a head with a straw hat on top and dressed it in one of the skirts she wore before it "shrank". The whole thing was kinda cute - every time I walked by it I was reminded of Pam, it looked so much like her. But it didn't do too much to keep the deer away. They continued to eat the apples and ate part of the straw hat and kept leaving derisive little notes pinned to the dress like, "NICE CLOTHES", or "THIS DRESS MAKES YOU LOOK FAT", or "WALMART SPECIAL" - things of that nature.

We thought about getting some cows. But we couldn't decide whether we should go dairy or beef. If dairy, then we were faced with the choice of what kind of cow would produce the best milk. We figured the milk would be pastuerized simply by letting the cows eat the grass in the pasture, but because of religious reasons we just couldn't be reconciled to homogenization. It was bad enough having a male cat and a male dog engaging in some inter-species relationship right under our noses in the house, we didn't think we were ready for what any low "mooing" early in the morning might mean.

So we turned our thinking to chickens. Last year, Pam bought four chickens (color coordinated, of course), and named them "Smiley", "Joy", "Happy", and "Rufus" (or something like that), and lovingly raised them from chicks to young adults - they were tender and juicy, succulent morsels of potential bar-b-qued flavor - at least that's how I saw them. Pam set up a coop in our garden shed. But, within a few weeks, the chickens began disappearing one by one without a trace. Finally, the only one left was "Joy" - quite appropriate, I thought, considering Pam's motto is "joy". She even has a "Joy Wall", displaying anything associated with "joy", like "Joyfulness", "Joy in the Morning", "Joy Dishwashing Detergent", things like that.

Well, anyway, one day, while Joy was aimlessly wandering the chicken run ruminating upon the possible fates of her companions and occassionally pecking the ground, Pam entered the garden shed and, glancing up toward the loft, her eyes met the banded eyes of a rogue racoon staring down at her. Little did we know, the racoon had established squatter rights in the upper loft of the shed, right above the chickens. I heard about it approximately 1.2 seconds later when Pam came rushing into the house screaming, "THERE'S A RACOON IN THE SHED!". Apparently, Pam didn't give any thought that she was leaving the last survivor alone with the culprit while traversing the 200 feet between the shed and the house to bring me this revelation.

Together, we hurried back to the shed, noticing along the way that Joy was still one of the spiritual gifts instead of an afternoon snack. I didn't see a racoon, but Pam pointed to the loft and whispered, "He was right there!". Silently, I headed toward the barn to get the step ladder with Pam in tow. Pam was evidently thinking of a plan, for as I reached for the step ladder she said, "You need to get the ladder." Carrying the ladder and a flashlight back to the shed, I cautiously climbed to get a view of the loft. Just before turning on the flashlight, I heard Pam say, "You might need a flashlight." - she was evidently still thinking of her plan. Using the light, I quickly saw the outline of our nemesis. Oh, he was a big one - fat, too. Scattered around him were various feathers and chicken bones. He had evidently been living and dining in style. I half expected to see an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece BarBQ sauce nearby.

I got a long stick and poked the racoon. He tensed up, but made no effort to remove himself from the comfortable accomodations he had established. Pam and I discussed how we could get the racoon out of the shed. The best I could finally come up with was to smoke him out. "But what if you burn the shed down?" asked Pam. I calmly explained that I would not have an open flame in the place, just some piece of smoldering rubber or something to produce smoke. "But, what if that catches fire and burns the shed down?" Pam insisted. Patiently I told her I would get the fire extinguisher and have it standing by. "But, what if something happens and the shed burns down?" Pam exclaimed. I yelled as rationally as I could that AT LEAST WE WOULD BE RID OF THE RACOON. To which, my dear wife, calmly told me not to yell at her, and she was merely concerned that Joy would not have a place to live if the shed burned down. At this I realized that she was still thinking upon her plan, and I did my level best to ignore her during the final preparations of burning down the shed - I mean, of smoking out the racoon.

Finally, all was ready. I had found a piece of rubber and a large metal can. After pouring a bit of gasoline into the can and placing the rubber in the can, I carefully placed the can in the center of the shed floor, directly beneath the abode of the racoon, lit a match, threw the match into the can from a respectful distance, and ran out the door.

The blazing contents soon caused the rubber to produce copious amounts of smoke, and Pam and I positioned ourselves to observe the imminent exit of the interloping procyon once he had had enough. Just as smoke began billowing out the door, we noticed that I may have used a bit too much gasoline, for the concoction was still spewing a considerable amount of flame that was spilling onto the shed floor, and appeared to be spreading. Pam anxiously asked, "Do you think you should have taken out the lawn mower and the tiller first? I mean, there is gas in the tanks, you know." Impulsively, I ran into the smoke filled shed and one by one retrieved the aforementioned equipment, along with all the other gas-powered equipment that weren't aforementioned, inhaling a large amount of smoke in the process.

When I had caught my breath, Pam asked me another anxious question: "Is it safe to keep the gas cans in there?" I resisted the tempatation to proclaim my confidence in the fireproof qualities of the five-gallon plastic containers (five each, a mere 25 gallons) and thought it best to again enter the potential death trap to rescue the gasoline.

(Note to any firefighers reading this: Please keep in mind that some of what is represented here is fictional and that there are very few people who believe I am stupid enough to have done such a thing. And there were no witnesses. And my wife cannot be trusted with the truth, either).

After a couple of harrowing minutes of heroic action on my part, Pam and I again positioned ourselves to watch the racoon vacate the premises. But, we never saw him come out. We waited till no more smoke was produced, and after the air cleared we took a peek into the loft - but no racoon. Apparently, the vermin was a student of Sun Tzu ("in chaos there is opportunity") and had donned his chem warfare gear and slipped out in the confusion while Pam and I were otherwise engaged.

Well, after lengthy discussion over the next few days, we knew we had to remove the loft from the shed - it was just too convenient a place for a varmint to hide amongst any chickens we might obtain in the future. So, I spent the next few days cleaning up the shed and tearing out the loft.

One thing about animals, they are creatures of habit. And like every good gourmet, they always return to the best eating establishments. Within a few days, there was no more "Joy" in the chicken coop. This time, though, I did find a trail of chicken feathers leading from the shed through the fence.

When I informed Pam of my findings, she sat for a moment, then proclaimed her distaste for all previously loved woodland creatures, especially racoons. And for the first time in our marriage, this paragon of virtue, this angel who is my wife, this sweet, kind-hearted, sensitive woman who had given names to chickens, told me with steel in her eyes that she wants to buy an AR-15, or an M134 minigun, whichever we could afford - to protect and defend her farmage in the United States against all enemies, foreign and domesticated.

And she changed her motto: She still has a "Joy Wall", but beneath it, in bold gothic font, reads the following:
"Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out."