Of course, getting mad is not going to do one bit of good. But it seems like it might make me feel a little better to go outside and scream a few profanities into the woods at the coyotes that are no doubt hiding in there.
Monday night, I had just laid down in bed when I heard the most horrid, long-winded screech. I flew out of bed, screaming that the coyotes were attacking something, and I went running out the dining room door, barefoot, in my gown. Jonathan went running out the front door. He got a lot farther than I did, since he was wearing shoes. He went to the chicken house and said he didn't see anything. The chicken house was closed up tight, and there wasn't a predator inside.
As it turned out, Mike had just pulled into the driveway, and he and Margaret also heard the torturous sound. He asked me what it was. I said it sounded like a chicken, but Jonathan hadn't found anything. Mike thought it sounded like a goat kid, and there is a doeling in the pasture just behind the chicken house, so he went out to check on her.
Instead, he found a badly injured chicken just outside the fence to the goat pasture. Just as Mike found her, Sovalye the Anatolian arrived. He had been in the goat pasture when the attack occurred. I was surprised that the coyote dropped the chicken, but the only way out was past the house, so I guess the coyote figured it would be tough enough to get past us by himself, and he should forget the chicken.
The chicken was dead by Tuesday morning.