Poultry Hobbyist Flock Survival

Poultry Hobbyist Flock Survival

The quiet after the storm: the coop on the morning of the attack.

By Kristine Minton

That’ s what made the morning I stepped outside to find feathers scattered across the run so gut-wrenching.

A Shocking Discovery

It started like any other day. I walked into the yard expecting the usual chorus of sounds— chirps, clucks, the bustling movement of my girls ready to greet the morning. But something was wrong. The air was too still. Too silent. Then I saw the feathers.

They were everywhere— floating in tufts across the run, clinging to corners of the fence, streaked with dirt. My heart dropped. I rushed to the coop and found the netting had a huge hole in it— something had jumped the fence. There was nothing but silence and scattered debris. The panic hit hard and fast. Something had gotten in.

One by one, I found the aftermath. A lifeless body near the fence line. A trail of feathers leading toward the woods. Some of the chickens were missing

The survivors stuck close together, slowly returning to normal.

altogether, likely dragged off. Others had clearly put up a fight. It was a nightmare come to life.

The Ones That Survived

Amid the wreckage, many had made it. I found them hiding— silent, shaken and still. One was wedged beneath the coop ramp, another tucked behind a coop and then there was Cher.

Cher had always been the boldest of the bunch. With her jet-black feathers and confident strut, she had personality in spades. Now, she was crouched behind one of the coops trembling but alive. Her eyes were wide, her body tense, but when I reached out to her, she didn’ t run. I scooped her up, and she let out a soft, broken cluck— a sound that both shattered and soothed me.

I went around and checked each survivor and found many had minor injuries. I took some time and just sat with them, my arms full of feathers and fear. I cried— deeply, unreservedly. These weren’ t just animals. They were companions I had raised from chicks, personalities I knew like family. Their fear mirrored mine. We were all in shock.

The days that followed were heavy. The coop— once full of noise and energy— felt like a graveyard. I couldn’ t even look at it without tearing up. My mornings, which used to start with laughter and routine, now began with dread. I caught myself counting instinctively, forgetting, hoping I had somehow been wrong.

Cher and the others moved slowly, staying close to each other, quiet in a way that was unnatural for them.

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Cher, one of the survivors, still struts with quiet resilience.

They flinched at shadows and startled at every sound. I understood. I was doing the same.

Sleep was elusive. Every rustle outside sent my heart racing. I kept a flashlight by the window and scanned the yard at night, praying not to see eyes glowing back. The sense of violation ran deep. My safe space had been torn apart, and I blamed myself— for not being more cautious, for trusting the security I’ d built, for not expecting the unthinkable.

What I Learned

Eventually, I had to pull myself out of the grief. Not just for me— but for the survivors. If I was going to keep them safe, if I ever wanted to rebuild my flock, I needed to make changes.

• Reinforce Everything: I started with the obvious: I went around and checked all the fencing and netting. I repaired the netting where it had jumped through. I made sure to reinforce anything that could be a way in. I installed motion-sensor lights and cameras, anything to give me time to respond if something came back. I put out owl decoys and bought wolf urine to spray around the perimeter of the property.

• Know the Patterns: Researching coyotes became a daily habit. I learned they’ re most active at dusk and dawn, especially in spring when they’ re feeding pups. They’ re smart, patient and persistent. I had underestimated them. That would never happen again.

• Complacency Is Dangerous: Living in a suburban area, I assumed we were relatively

A stronger coop, a wiser keeper and a flock that refuses to be broken.

safe from major predators. That illusion was shattered. Coyotes don’ t care about fences or sidewalks. They adapt. They only need one chance— one mistake— to take everything.

• Healing Is Hard, but Possible: The survivors slowly began to act like themselves again. Cher started scratching in the dirt. Another hen, once skittish, began perching in her old spot. Their resilience amazed me. I realized that just like them, I was healing too— slowly, and with new awareness.

Moving Forward

The trauma still lingers. I still double-check locks at night. I still hesitate before walking into the yard in the morning. The fear hasn’ t fully gone away— but it’ s no longer paralyzing.

Cher and her fellow survivors are thriving now. Stronger. Wiser. Louder, too— they’ ve found their voices again, and so have I.

This experience taught me more than I ever wanted to learn about loss, responsibility and preparation. But it also taught me about resilience— about getting back up, protecting what matters and finding the strength to rebuild.

I’ ll never forget the chickens I lost. Their absence still tugs at my heart. But I’ m thankful for the ones that survived. They remind me every day that even in the aftermath of something unthinkable, there is hope. There is healing.

And sometimes, the fiercest survivors come with feathers, sass and a determination to live another day.

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