---------------------------------------------------WARNING------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------Seriously you’ve been warned--------------------------------------------------------
I walked out to the chicken hutch on Sunday to collect my daily installment of soon-to-be Bunessun Show prize winning eggs. I was feeling great about the eggs because their size had been steadily increasing over the past few weeks. I could already see the red first prize ticket along with the monumental £2.50 cash prize sum being handed to me as all the other chicken keepers on Mull pouted about the new comer who had ousted them of all their glory in a matter of weeks. I lifted the roof to reveal my spoils...but something was amiss, there were no spoils to be had. Hang on a second, no eggs?!? I had not experienced an eggless day since I brought the hens back down to the croft. Dark storm clouds instantly filled my head and I stormed off looking for the culprits. A few calls of “Chook, chook” later and I had the guilty parties happily strutting around my feet, oblivious to the wrath that was about to come raining down upon them. I unleashed a barrage of “how could you” and “after all those hand feedings,” and “not even one measly solitary egg!” The hens stopped their parading and looked at me cock-eyed as if to say “Who? Us?”, “Yes you, you feathered brained pigeons!” I replied. I was not having any of their innocent tricks this time; I was getting to the bottom of this. I called upon my vast knowledge of chicken psychology trying to determine the cause for this mockery of their biological duties. The only two things that came to mind were, firstly, they had inadvertently pecked open one of their own eggs and gotten a taste for the sweet glory that lay within (this is a big problem, believe it or not, and one that caused my mother to devise a cunning strategy of inserting golf balls into the coop so that when the hens pecked them they figured the eggs were rock hard and decided they were not worth trying to eat), or secondly, something had put them off their usual laying schedule (either an illness, which I was sure wasn’t the case, or something else…). I decided that some serious investigation was in order.
The egg on the right is one of the normal eggs I get. Its good size compared to any egg you’d see somewhere else but compared with mega egg on the left it looks tiny. I heard the poor hen trying to lay this the other day and when I saw the size I understand why the clucks were so strained. Mega egg has been referred to as “a duck egg” by several who witnessed its majesty before I turned it into breakfast.
If there’s one thing I know about chickens it’s that everything begins and ends at the coup. If there was a clue to be had I was betting it would be somewhere in or around their house. I took off the roof and set it aside. At first glance everything within seemed normal; chicken shit in the water dish (when will they learn that the dish is literally the only place they shouldn’t shit?), a little round nest bed in the corner where each hen takes her turn at laying every morning (or not laying, as has been the case recently), the bar on which they roost…everything seemed in order. Then just as I was getting ready to put on the roof again and go back to have another kick-off at the hens I noticed something lying against the wall by the entrance…it was a small piece of egg shell. They were pecking their own eggs, I knew it! Oh they were in for it this time; there would be no shirking of their responsibilities on my watch. There was still, however, something niggling in the back of my mind; one piece of broken shell does not three eggs account for. I decided to look around a little more before I condemned all three to their punishment, which I was still trying to decide upon. I walked around the banks of the stream where the chickens often gather while they wait for me to feed them or to hide among the grass and reeds in nasty weather. Almost immediately I nearly trod on an egg nestled into a small patch of grass. That’s odd, I thought, but at least it meant they were still laying (or at least two, since there was still one egg not accounted for) and one hen was now off the hook as its egg was still intact if not slightly misplaced, but that could be excused this once. Another few yards up the bank and I had a third egg…or what was left of a third egg. I found about two thirds of the outstanding egg, obviously empty of yoke, sitting on the sheep path that leads to the grassy hill behind the croft. Suddenly all of my theories of egg pecking sabotage and hen laying strikes where cast unceremoniously out the window. No chicken was capable of picking up her egg and carrying it off to have a little picnic and they wouldn’t bother to do this even if they could. If they wanted to eat their own eggs they had the comfort and privacy of their hutch in which to do so. There was much more to this mystery than I had at first assumed.
The rest of my Sunday afternoon was spent pondering the possible explanations for the strange scene that I had uncovered earlier in the day. After many interrogations of my hens and deep ponderings of their lack of credible explanations I was no closer to cracking the case when I finally sank into bed. I had to put my thoughts aside and get myself prepared for a long Monday beginning with and early morning and the weekly landing. After Kayaking across the bay I waited at the Fidden farm house for Jamie to pick me up. It gave me time to ask some of the locals their take on the mystery I was struggling to solve….
Some seemed to contemplate my story carefully although I gathered it was too early for them to really get their horns around it…
Others were completely uninterested in anything I had to say, instead focusing
their attentions on things they could round up…or scratch…
With no plausible suggestions coming from any of the locals I was again left in a state as confusion as I hopped into Jamie’s truck and started off for the boat yard and a long tiring day at sea. The mysterious egg mystery (is that too repetitive?) would have to wait until I returned to dry land.
Upon beaching my kayak on the Erraid shore that evening I had very little time to wait before the full frightening reality of the cracked egg case would come to fruition. I walked towards the house and watched happily as my hens sprinted across the beach towards me, as they do every day, expectations of bread swirling around in their heads. After reassuring them that I would return with some snacks I entered the garden where I found Anna, who was living at the village, sitting in the garden enjoying the sunshine. I had barely managed a “hello” before she said that she had solved the mindboggling egg mystery. It was her day off and she had come down earlier in the day to get some peace and quiet and read in the garden. While she was sitting there she had spotted the culprit of the egg thefts. It was none other than a Mink, scourge of the Scottish isles, pillager of innocent wildlife and destroyer of eco-systems; the ultimate enemy of any Scottish farmer. She told me of how she had watched the Mink unabashedly going in and out of the garden and the hen hutch during the day completely unconcerned with her presence mere feet from the coup. She had seen it retreat under the bridge that crossed the small stream just beside the hen hutch and watched the hens obliviously peck around not more than a meter from where she had last seen the cold blooded killer. Instantly I flew into a bloodthirsty rage, blinded by anger. It was fueled in part by fear for my poor hens who could do little to protect themselves if the Mink decided it wanted more than just the eggs it was already helping itself to, in part by the fact that the Mink was, in fact, helping himself to my eggs, and also by the fact that I knew that for the majority of the day I was gone and could do little, if anything, to prevent what I believed to be inevitable…retuning to find one, or all, of my hens murdered by this savage little monster.
Who wouldn’t want to protect something that looked like this, eggs or no eggs?
I spun away from Anna, who was still trying to explain what she’d seen, grabbed the nearest weapon, a pitchfork, and stormed off around the house. I rattled my pitchfork into every cave and crevice that I could find, yelling vicious threats and explaining in detail to the mink, who I was sure was within earshot, the terrible things that would befall him should he even so much as think of harming a feather on any of my hens. Unsurprisingly my vengeance fueled tirade did not uncover the perpetrator but it did allow me to blow off some steam so that I could approach the situation with a slightly more rational outlook. I set about re-baiting the Mink traps, which I had already set out when I first repatriated the hens to the croft after my arrival, with some fresh fish heads. I rounded up the hens, gave them some bread and unceremoniously stuffed them all into the hutch (after first lifting the lid to make sure the Mink was not laying in wait inside). I was reminded of a story my mom told me of when my grandmother had locked her eight hens into their hutch for the night not realizing that in doing so she had also shut the Mink in with them, only to awake to the carnage of all eight birds viciously murdered during the night. I was not about to make the same mistake, especially given that I already knew this Mink was very familiar with hutch. The hens were very confused as to why they were being put to bed several hours before they would normally make that decision for themselves. I got several very fussy clucks and a few attempted escapes as I shooed all three into the hutch and latched the door. I was taking no chances. I swore on everything I believed in to Anna that I would have that Mink before he took another egg and that I wouldn’t let any harm befall my beloved hens. She could tell by the serious tone of my voice and the fire still burning in my eyes that this was not an empty promise to be questioned, she simply smiled and nodded.
Tuesday was one of the most difficult days I have had at work and it had absolutely nothing to do with the work on the boat at hand. I had left that morning with an empty feeling in my stomach as I let the hens out for the day. After much deliberation I had determined that I could not keep them locked up all day and that if the Mink had wanted to kill them he could have done so during the past few days or possibly weeks that he had already been around. I was not about to give in so easily to the threat and let this shady little beast get the best of me. Nevertheless my day was filled with thoughts of hen hutch massacres and frantic chases ending always in my hens being killed in cold blood by the evil, murderous Mink. I was even having some trouble getting excited by the fact that our week on Arianna had started as the best yet with the promise of a huge catch to be landed the following Monday.
Upon being dropped at the wood pile by Jamie I leapt into my Kayak and raced across the bay. The boat had barely scrapped onto the sand at the other side before I was out and running up the beach calling to my ladies. I waited and called and finally two hens came in full sprint around the corner of the house. My spirits lifted until I did not see the third hen on their heels. Where was she? I again called frantically, already wondering where the mangled body might be lying and wondering if I could bare to see that sight before I had even taken my oil skins off. Before my depressing thoughts could sink any further, however, the straggler turned up huffing and clucking around the house thinking that it was already missing out on some tasty little treat from me. I was instantly full of happiness and heaped lavish praise on my brave hens for going about their lives without fear. They simply looked at me, confused as to why I had called them so vigorously and yet stood here now with no food for them as if to say “Come on then mate, you just made us hoof it all the way from the beach for this, where’s the bread then?” I gladly obliged and retuned from the house with several choice bits of bread and some leftovers from the night before. I sat with the hens fussing about me fighting over the bits of food I held out for them to jump for thinking that I could not go on every day like this. The emotional rollercoaster that had been my 9 hours away from the croft was unacceptable and was detracting from my immense enjoyment of fishing. I had to come up with a better plan to combat my enemy. The Mink traps had been baited for the past three weeks with fish heads and had returned no Mink. To be fair I had only added fresh bait on two occasions because I had not thought a Mink to be living in the area but nevertheless it seemed that this particular Mink was not interested in the fish. Then I had my cartoon light bulb flashing revelation; if the Mink wants fresh eggs why not give him fresh eggs? I had been getting three eggs a day, far more than I was consuming, and I was more than willing to risk a few of those if it meant I would continue to have three hens. I immediately ran to the house and retrieved two of the freshest eggs (ones that had not been refrigerated yet). I set about baiting the traps and this time I was not fooling around. I spent nearly an hour carefully setting the trap doors on my two Mink traps so that it would take little more than a mouse sneezing over the metal plate at the rear of the cage to trigger the door to close. The eggs were placed all the way at the back behind the aforementioned metal plate so that when the Mink entered to retrieve them he would have to set at least his front paws on the plate and that would be more than enough.
The bait. I was really torn between using these for bait and just making a nice omelet and sticking with the fish heads.
I had been invited to dinner up at the village that night and so I shut my hens up early again, giving me some peace of mind, and set off for dinner. The night was spent with me talking to several of the long time residents about their own Mink experiences and receiving the same quizzical looks and questioning responses when I told them what I had decided to use for bait. I assured them that I was certain that the Mink was far more interested in the eggs than any other sort of bait I could think of and that the typical fish head bait had been ineffective to say the least. I left them no more convinced by the end of our discussion but their doubt had only served to strengthen my resolve that I would have the Mink. I again swore to anyone that would listen that I would catch the Mink before the week was up, my pride only slightly dented by the laughs I received in return.
Wednesday passed much as Tuesday had, with nervous thoughts back to my hens innocently pecking around the seaweed and grass unaware of the danger that could be lurking behind any corner. I again rushed home and was greatly relieved when all three again responded to my calls. I ran to check my traps but they empty, the eggs were still sitting just where I had left them at the back of the cages. I double checked the spring mechanism to make sure it was still set to the “sneezing mouse” sensitivity setting I had arranged the day before and covered over the traps with some netting, grass and other random bits to conceal the obviously unnatural metal bars of the cage I hoped would be the final holding place for the dark villain. Again I shut the hens in very early and had another walk around the croft to try to see if I could find any other clues that would suggest a Mink hiding place. The fact was that the hiding places around the croft where so numerous that I could never hope to find them all let alone do anything more to catch the Mink even if he really was hiding in one of them. I had to hope that my traps would do the trick.
That evening I got the call from Jamie that a nasty gale was blowing in and that our next several days of fishing would be jeopardized beginning with us not going out the following day due to the high winds that were already rolling in from the West. I was glad for a day off as I had started to feel slightly under the weather and was greatly in need of a lie in and day of recovery. My friend Britta from the village kindly offered to let my chickens out and feed them the next morning so that I could sleep in late. I woke early to the sound of the wind battering the house and listened for a minute or two before rolling over and going back to sleep. The next sound that awoke me from my slumber was not one that I would simply lay and listen to. Instead it started me from a dream and had me out of bed and dressing as I rushed out the door moments later. It was the sound of a very frantic and uncomfortable chicken and I feared that I had played with fate one day to long and the Mink had finally attacked the hens. There are only three real calls I understand from my hens. There is the proud clucking declaration when they have just finished laying a fresh egg, the unhappy drawn out clucks when they are hungry or have just been pecked off the food by another of the hens, and, lastly, the fearful and excited clucks when they feel threatened or frightened about something. I have heard it before but not this year and I was hoping I wouldn’t have to hear it at all.
As I rushed out of the dorm I grabbed the pitchfork, which I had stationed by the door on the first day I had realized that there was Mink about, and burst out o the gate. There I quickly began calling for me hens and waited as two came from around the front of the croft. The third I could hear but could not yet see and this was the hen that had raised the alarm. I listened and again the call came…from inside the hutch. The hair on the back of neck bristled and I slowly crept to the hutch and threw open the roof, pitch fork raised waiting to stab at the Mink should he be inside. All I found was a very frazzled looking hen, unharmed but surrounded by feathers pacing back at forth near the entrance to the coup. All chickens accounted for and unharmed I relaxed slightly. My eyes shot down to the entrances to the two Mink traps that were set near the coup. The first was still open and my eyes shifted to the second, hidden beneath a net and some reeds to the left of the hutch door…it was closed!
I pulled away the netting to reveal the long, sleek black frame of the Mink. I had captured it and all three of my hens were still alive to see! I celebrated, dancing in a Crile around the Mink, pitch fork in the air, laughing maniacally and shouting “I told you I’d bag you, you mangy little bastard,” to the Mink, who for his part, had not yet seemed to realize that he was caught and was more concerned that someone was interrupting his egg lunch. The egg was lying at his paws, carefully cracked open so that the shell served as a little bowl to hold the precious yoke inside.
I know what you are all thinking at this point, “Awww, he’s so cute and furry and cuddly.” “WRONG!” He is, in fact, the most foul, vicious, bloodthirsty killer that exists (unnaturally I must add) in all of Scotland. He is responsible for the decline in population of all ground dwelling animals and nesting birds in the Scottish Isles. He can swim exceedingly well and so no island is safe from his marauding ways. He only exists in Scotland because a bunch of do-gooder animal rights folks decided that Mink farming, for their pelts, was cruel (which I agree it is) leading to the amazingly foolish decision to simply open all the cage doors and let the Mink lose into an environment that was completely unprepared for them. They are amazingly adaptable and as such have thrived in the area. Everything about them is designed to help them catch and kill whatever they want. The worst part is that they seem to have a pension for killing even when it is totally unnecessary (remember my mom’s tale of an entire batch of hens killed in one night in the infamous coop lock-in murder) and will leave bodies of their victims totally untouched. They seem to be one animal, maybe one of the only, that kills for pleasure. Now I had this sadistic creature captured at my feet and the task of what to do next was now mine alone to determine. The decision for me, however, was an instantaneous no-brainer; the Mink had to be killed.
Now I cannot remember ever killing a mammal in my life. I have always loved all things furry and fluffy. I was raised with rabbits, gerbils and hamsters and have always had an interest in ferrets, which are extremely similar to Mink, although never actually owned one. So for me, killing a small, fuzzy, cute-looking critter is something I never expected I’d be faced with and until now, if you’d asked, I probably would have said I couldn’t do it. But in this moment surrounded by my hens which, judging by the feathers around the hutch, had just had a close encounter with the Mink, I had complete conviction in the task at hand. My only real decision was not if, but how, to kill the Mink and there were really only two possibilities I could think of. The first was some sort of physical battering of the animal either with a rock or something sharp driven through the cage but I really didn’t want to risk not finishing it swiftly and end up maiming the animal. I wanted one action to finish the job. I also did not want to face listening to the painful screeches of the Mink. He was already beginning to hiss and screech at me as I stood over the cage obviously starting to sense the danger he was in. I decided that I would drown him in the stream. It was a method I had remembered hearing of being used when I was younger and it seemed the best option to me. I decided to let the Mink have his last meal of the egg and went off in search of some rope to fix to the cage so that I could lower it into the stream.
As I searched around for a suitable length of rope to use I began to have strong feelings that I had conquered a great evil and that I was doing a service not only to my hens but also to all the small birds and animals in the area. I thought about the Shell ducks living on the beach and about their nine little ducklings that I had been watching everyday being taught to swim, forage for food and even the early stages of their flight lessons. I thought about the sand pipers who had been nobly guarding their nests along the beach and among the rocks, doggedly chasing away seagulls and anything else, including me, that got too close to their secret nests. I thought about the rabbits and hares that I see sprinting around the grass and about their litters of babies hiding down holes, holes that Mink would have no trouble entering. I obviously thought most about my hens, who greet me so excitedly whenever I get home and peer through the gate waiting for the door to swing open every morning as I carry out their breakfast. I thought about these things and realized that I would gladly take on the duty of executioner in exchange for the daily joy I get from watching all of these animals habitually go about their lives. As I pulled down a rope hanging in the boat shed my mind and heart were firmly set upon the task at hand.
Returning to the trap I began tying the rope to two points on the handle of the cage. The mink, by this time, had finished his last meal and was anxiously looking for a way out of what would soon become his metal coffin. Upon seeing me his body tensed, I could see the muscles tighten as he crouched in the corner of the cage softly hissing and barely his small dagger shaped teeth. As I fumbled with the knots his hisses grew more fervent and then turned to screeches which pierced the air and sent the hens into another bout of uncomfortable clucking. Any feelings of hesitation that might have still existed in me were driven off when I heard the awful screeching. It was not the sound of a gentle creature it was the sound of evil captured and out of its element. The rope firmly fixed to the cage I hoisted it up and began carrying it down to the bridge to the front right of the croft. I set it on the bridge while I went to get a large rock, which would serve as a weight on the cage once it was lowered down into the water.
The Mink peering nervously into the stream, if only he knew why he was on the bridge
I was now at the point of no return. I was the only one around and there was no asking someone else to do the deed. I lifted the cage, gave one last look to the Mink and quickly lowered the cage into the water. It did not need the rock as the weight of the steel was enough to drag in to the bottom but I put the rock on anyway not wanting there to be any doubt. I watched for a minute but something told me not stay and l left. I busied myself with some chores for 20 minutes before returning and hauling up the cage. The Mink was dead and I felt first a weight lifted off my shoulders followed by a moment of pity for the creature that now lay motionless and dripping in the cage.
The moment of pity passed quickly as I remembered what I was avoiding by killing the Mink. There was no question in my mind as to what was to be done with the body of the tormentor of my chickens. I marched the cage up to the old swing set where last year Sam had hung the head of a massive conger eel he had caught while fishing. Donning some gloves I opened the cage and pulled the Minks body out. I had decided that he would hang next to Sam’s eel and serve as a warning to any other Mink that this croft was not one they wanted to pick to terrorize. I fixed his tail with a solid knot (one of my newly learned fishermen’s knots!) and tied the other end to the cross bar of the swing. Much as a farmer would erect a scarecrow in his fields to ward off crows now so too do I have my Mink deterrent swaying in the breeze, a constant reminder that my hens and all the creatures of the croft bay are protected by a force to be reckoned with!
Note: In the days after all of this I have started to find myself coming out with really tasteless dead mink jokes but I still felt that they were worth sharing.
I cannot help, every time I leave the croft, giving a glance up to the Mink and saying “Oh, you still hanging around here?”
The cream of the crop came when I recently went up to the village for dinner. I was standing in the line to get some food with several others including my good friend Britta, when I turned to her and said “Oh Britta do you think it’ll rain this evening?” “I don’t know,” she replied, “Why?” “Well it’s just that I’ve got this Mink hanging to dry and it would be a real shame if he got all wet again.”
…I’m evil, I know but don’t tell me that didn’t make you smile too.
viva las gallinas!
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