It was the screaming that woke me.

It was an ordinary night, expect I had gone to bed earlier than the rest of the family.  They were in the basement watching a movie and I was on the top floor, cozy in my bed.  The window was wide open, not just because of the spring air, but more so because of what my husband likes to call the “menopause air conditioning”.

The past few weeks nights one of our little hens had taken to sleeping outside (perhaps she likes the spring temps like I do).  We kept missing her as the kids put the birds to bed, locking them in safely, but after 2 years on our farm and not a single visit from a predator, we never really worried.  She was safely tucked away somewhere, and we would see her the next morning.

But then I heard the screaming.

My first instinct was that it was a cat fight, but I could tell there was a different sound to this scream. It was abject terror. Pure fear.

I pulled myself from bed and listened out the window as the scream kept on, locating it to one of our chicken coops…

While I went downstairs, found shoes and a light, the scream kept on. It was pain. It was fear.

Nighty on, (yes, I sleep in a nighty) and my husbands too big shoes I rushed out to the coop.  The screaming stopped then, and I saw a large racoon labour up a tree.  At this point, understanding what I probably just witness sent me shaking.

See, some chickens are more gentle than others. Much like people you have your adventurous, worldly birds. The ones no fences can tame.  And then you have your more docile hens, the girls who are content to stick around their coop and dust bathe under the careful eye of their roosters.

This little girl, who was accidentally camping outside, was the soft kind.  She was simple and sweet and didn’t deserve what I had just heard.  My legs were shaking as I called for my husband.

When he got out there and shone his light on me we both noticed I was standing in a pile of soft black feathers.

I have witnessed death before. I have held a life in my hands as it passed. I have experienced traumatic deaths, ones that were surprising and unwelcome. But I have never had to experience the torture that this death was. The sound played over and over in my head the rest of the night. The screams.

Neither of us slept well that night. Fearful that there was a predator on the loose with the rest of our flock “sitting ducks”.  Memories of this struggle still fresh in my mind.

The next morning was bittersweet. Hubby went to explore the scene, clean up if required. I was still shaken.

And I know.  I KNOW. It was “just” a chicken.

But it wasn’t the loss of an animal, it was the pain and struggle that occurred. It was ANYTHING screaming like that, and it affected me.

As I was pouring my coffee that morning, with the sun just hitting the ground, out of the forest pops a little black hen.  She is on the hunt for breakfast, happy and healthy as can be.

We checked our flock and every soul was accounted for. We aren’t sure what came to such a bitter end that night, but we are grateful that our girls were safe, and we were reminded that even if we don’t see the predators, they ARE there.

We now drag chickens from trees and make sure our girls are safely to bed, never wanting to hear those screams again.  Our only idea is that a crow was taken that night, and we shared in its torture by a hungry racoon.

Another reminder that death has choices. It can be gentle and loving, and it can also be violent and vicious.