Night Visitors

Just as I was settling in to write my post for the evening, Sheila asked to go out. Both Karl and I hop to it when she meanders toward the door. We’ve learned our lesson.

Tonight was no different.

But letting Sheila out to go to the bathroom is no longer a rote exercise. No. We need to remain vigilant during these excursions because the poor old girl can easily wander off into the darkest corners of the world or become discombobulated and forget how to come back up the steps without stumbling over roots or getting lost in the weeds. It’s painful to watch her walk into the slender, wrought iron bird feeder poles – and amazing, actually, that she manages to find them to bonk herself on.

Tonight, though, went without a hitch. Until I was guiding her back into the house.

That’s when I felt my stomach clench.

Across the scrabble of rocky soil and haphazard collection of ash, maple, oak, and walnut trees separating our land from our neighbors’, I heard a distinctly chilling scream. There was the tiniest hint of a bark within the eerie exclamation, but it was mostly an unsettling cry that involuntarily raised the hackles at the back of my neck.

Sheila, being quite deaf, was unfazed. The cries continued.

Chicken Alert

I should mention that even further beyond that collection of deciduous trees is a hill-and-dale expanse of lawn and a couple of outbuildings. And then, in plain sight to us during the day, but not so obvious at night, is our neighbor’s chicken coop. (You might recall this to be the old stomping grounds of the late lamented Duckhead.)

I cocked my head to one side, trying to locate the origin of the cries. I tried to discern whether that yelping and those unsettling screams were coming from near our neighbors’ chicken coop or perhaps from across the way, in the borderlands between the neighbors and the pasture where my beloved donkeys reside and bray vociferously – especially at night.

I’m pretty sure the fox (or foxes, for all I know, since January is mating season and they may be frisky) was further away than hanging out near ‘my girls.’ Had I sensed the chickens were in true danger, I probably would’ve texted our neighbors to alert them that there might be trouble. Either that or walked over there myself, armed with a flashlight. But I could see that all the lights were out so my neighbors were presumably tucked in bed for the night.

Meanwhile, Sheila had found her way back up the stone steps and onto our porch. She stood patiently at my feet, nose up against the the metal screen door, having yet again successfully negotiated the obstacle course that is part of the challenge of relieving oneself when you’re 15 ½ years old, mostly blind and even more deaf.

I marveled at how close the foxes were this evening and how their calls give me goose bumps when carried on the wind. I wonder if those calls wake the chickens – or just feature scarily in their dreams.

Do chickens dream, I wonder?