As a chicken farmer, protecting your flock from predators can feel like a full-time job. No other domesticated animal is more relished by so many natural predators, and in rural Ohio, we certainly see our share of them. Here, the coyotes, foxes, mink, and even several birds of prey all consider the poor chicken a tasty meal. However, the threat sighted most frequently is the raccoon.
A family of them seems to live on the far side of our creek, at the edge of the woods. Whenever the water is shallow, they come across and look for their next meal. Shortly after dark, two pairs of glowing eyes appear in the tall grass at the edge of our field. The narrow,platinum orbs are reflected in the dim light of my head lamp as they slink steadily closer. (It still gives me the creeps just thinking about it!)
They are pesky critters, bent on finding something to eat at every turn. Of course, our trash is a veritable smorgasbord that must be investigated frequently. I have caught them in the act numerous times when I’m leaving for work in the wee hours of the morning. This is how the encounter usually goes: All is quiet as I walk to the car, except for an obvious rummaging soundcoming from somewhere nearby. Just ahead, our large trash can rattles and shakes as it’s thoroughly ransacked. I’m detected right away, for the noise quickly stops all together. Much like Oscar the Grouch, he pushes up the lid with the top of his head, and peeks out at me. Seconds later, he scrambles away and is soon long gone.
Garbage is indeed interesting to all raccoons, but it’s not what this bunch of scavengers likes best. Their dedicated efforts to sneak into the coop is proof positive of their culinary preference. Greatly desired is the high-class dining experience found within its hallowed walls. There, the menu includes fresh eggs, quality chicken feed, and sometimes tasty chicken treats. If the intruders are truly famished, they become dangerous and order up a fresh chicken platter, but thankfully they’re often too lazy and full to bother chasing one around first.
In recent years, I had enjoyed a great deal of success in keeping raccoons out of the coop. However, I was in for quite a surprise while checking on the chickens one summer evening. Beyond the very familiar sight of chickens settling onto their roosts for the night, I could barely make out two furry objects in the waning light. “No way!” I thought. “It can’t be!” Yet, sure enough, there were two raccoons calmly observing me from just a few feet away. Strangely, the chickens did not seem frightened at all, as if they were perfectly happy with the new arrangement. I, on the other hand, was certainly not the least bit fine with it, so I charged inside, clapping my hands and shouting. Disappointingly, the two drifters did not budge an inch, and even took on a look of agitation. I was pretty sure that there could be no positive outcomes resulting from an attack by two cornered raccoons, so I decided to back off and live to fight another day. I would regroup and come back with a plan to dislodge the two stowaways.
In the morning, I was relieved to find that all of the chickens were still alive and well. It was evident that the raccoons had been busy gobbling up feed and fresh eggs instead. (Sigh.) The handles on the feed tub were busted, where they had forced their way inside it. Layer pellets were scattered everywhere and the two culprits gazed up at me from the far corner with smirks on their faces. “That does it!” I said in exasperation. “You two have got to go!” Still, Iwas unsure exactly how I would accomplish it.
I shared the raccoon dilemma with our neighbor as we talked at the fence. He told me that there were raccoons living in his horse barn not long ago and that music caused them to leave. “Music! Ah, yes!” I thought. “What a great idea!” I remembered that Dad used to leave a radio playing in the garden all night to keep critters away. Surely, it would work on these miscreants, too. I couldn’t wait to try it!
That afternoon, I poked my head into the coop and observed one of the freeloaderslounging inside. Incredibly, he was lying on his back atop the feed tub, lost in the pleasure of a food coma. He slowly turned his head and looked at me upside down with a lethargic grin. His huge belly, now on full display, was insulting and yet also highly amusing. In truth, I probably would have laughed out loud if I were not so annoyed by the intrusion.
In any case, I was determined to get him out of there, but I had not yet decided how exactly I would go about setting up a radio inside the coop. Then an idea came to me. “What if I sing loudly? That might work just as well!” I surmised. To be sure, singing to a raccoon sounded like a weird idea. It certainly would not be something to tell the guys at work, but I was willing to try it. Moments later, I was bawling out, “Get out of here!” in my loudest, most obnoxious opera voice, and carrying the last note with an especially irritating vibrato. Now, while it surely did not sound like something from The Barber of Seville, it did work amazingly well. The moment I started, the raccoon quickly rolled over and curled up into a ball. By the time it was over, he had crawled down the opposite side of the tub, slinked along the wall, and finally dashed out the door.
Still belting out my motif, I patched up the hole where the raccoons had gained access. I felt good, even heroic, bringing the chickens back inside safe and sound. I was a triumphant tenor who scared away a dangerous predator with only the power of my voice. Graciously, I looked around for some accolades from the chickens, but they still seemed completely unfazed by the whole experience. They were certainly not clamoring for an encore performance. My bubble sufficiently pecked, I was reminded not to quit my day job!