The Bobcat

How I Stopped Worrying and Kill When Necessary

I woke up that morning and went about the sunrise chores like any other day. Started a pot of coffee, headed out to the chicken coop to let the little monsters out to forage, topped off their food and water. My trusted dog followed me, staring intently through the fencing as each hen hopped out of the coop and into their pen.

Through sleepy eyes I watched the flock head out to scratch and fuss around. Something odd caught my attention.

‘Didn’t I have four grey hens?’ I thought.

I counted, then counted again. There were three grey hens mixed in with the flock of 20-odd chickens and a big majestic rooster.

I wandered the chicken pen, peering around each corner. No sign of a dead hen. No feathers, no bits and pieces of devoured chicken. Just a missing bird.

A few days later, the routine repeated. ‘Don’t I have three grey hens?’

This time I found a few grey feathers scattered around the fence line. But no corpse. I had lost hens before, but every time there was a body. I even scared off a hawk eating a rooster, leaving behind a torn and bloody corpse in a mess of feathers. Now the hens were just disappearing into the ether.

The trend continued. Every few days I would walk out into the yard for my morning rounds and the flock would be one bird less. I checked the fencing for holes. Nothing. Most of the predators in my area were nocturnal, if the coop was closed up at night the hens were safe. Day time predators were hawks, and with the introduction of Dapper Dan, the majestic rooster, the threat from hawks was greatly reduced.

A sense of unease settled in. Something was out there eating my birds at a rate of one every 3-4 days. This couldn’t go on. I set up a game camera hoping to catch the fiend.

The farm life is a new thing to me. Maybe it’s a bit of a larp, a hobby, but I take it seriously. The birds provide eggs for my table and for a side business. I can’t afford to lose the whole flock. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I hope with the game camera I can at least know what I’m up against and create a strategy to solve my problem.

I don’t even need the game camera. I’m having my morning coffee and watching ‘Chicken TV’ with my girlfriend when a bobcat pops up over the fence and deftly lands in the chicken pen. The two of us, excited dog in tow, run out to chase off the bobcat. It jumps up on the fence and gives us a look of disdain. It knows we can’t do anything, and it will be back. I may own a gun, but I’ve never hunted, never shot anything but a target, and a 9mm handgun and an AR, are not exactly the proper tools for eliminating a bobcat. I’m in a bind.

A long morning of bobcat proofing the chicken pen commences. Wires are strung between posts to make it harder to climb over the fence. The chickens look on with dull expressions, seemingly oblivious to the losses they have incurred.

It seems to work, a week goes by without any reductions in the flock. I find myself at a family dinner regaling everyone with the tale of my feline chicken thief.

My Uncle, a man who grew up poor in the Midwest, who only ate meat caught by rod or rifle, who bored and built his own hunting rifle, tells me, “You gotta kill the bobcat. It knows where the food is, it will come back.”

“I don’t have the proper gun for this.”

“I’ll give you one. It was your granddad’s .22, you might as well have it anyway.”

“Ok, but I don’t know when it will show up. I’ve only seen it once. Maybe it won’t come back. I can’t just sit and wait every morning.”

“I’ll be over tomorrow to show you how to operate the rifle,” he says. His nonchalance about it has committed me to at least having the gun at hand.

The whole thing irks me. I don’t want to kill the bobcat. I have very little interest in hunting or killing animals. I’d prefer the bobcat just moves on. That the improved fencing is enough of a deterrence. That there are easier and tastier sources for food in the area.

I leave the rifle in a closet by the mud room, magazine nearby. It sits there, a reminder of a task that lies in my future, a confrontation with a moment I’m not sure I’m ready for. But the chickens are safe for now.

I settle back into my routine, the bobcat another interesting chapter in this experiment at farm life. I can go back to being a gardener with some chickens. The rifle can sit in the closet. Maybe I’ll hang it in my office as a family heirloom.

Things seem to be working out. The hens continue on with their merry life or scratching around and laying eggs. Dapper Dan struts around, keeping an eye on his hens. If a certain silhouette appears in the sky he ushers the flock into the coop and stands guard until any avian predators have passed on.

The rifle stays in the closet. I haven’t touched it since the day my Uncle dropped it off. This is fine with me. The chickens are safe, and I haven’t had to kill anything. It’s a relief to know I’ve taken care of my bobcat problem without confronting the shooting it problem.

The hens begin to disappear again.

Then the rooster is gone. I check the game cam, the bobcat is caught in profile, stalking across the chicken pen. Dapper Dan, the majestic rooster, is no more.

Somewhere out in the woods is a predator. It slips over the fence in the early hours of the morning, drags a bird back into the woods. There is never a sound, no frightened squawking from the hens, no alert. Just another bird gone, a small pile of feathers the only sign they ever existed. I feel impotent. The rifle sits in the closet, calling to me. My peaceful solution has failed and only one solution is left. Violence.

I’ve now lost a third of my flock. I now want to kill the bobcat. Every morning during coffee I peer into the woods, scan the fence line. I want the bobcat to pop up so I can shoot it. I’m still not sure I can do it, but I want the confrontation. Maybe just shoot towards it, scare it off, let it know there is a threat out here, let it move on. I have neighbors, they have chickens, there are dozens of them pecking around yards just a few hundred yards in every direction. Don’t come here, here is danger.

One cold and clear morning, we are watching ‘Chicken TV’ and the bobcat appears. I hop out of my chair so fast that it falls over. I’ve grabbed the gun and put on my coat and boots before the chair has stopped rocking back and forth. I leave dog and girlfriend inside and head out towards the chicken pen. Two heads watch me from the window.

I don’t really know what I’m doing or what I’m going to do. I don’t even remember how to operate the rifle. It is an old bolt action, it’s easy to use, but I never practice and adrenaline is swarming my system. By the time I get to the pen I have the magazine loaded. I chamber a round, open the gate and step in. The bobcat is 50 feet away. It looks at me. I take aim and shoot. The safety is still on. I fumble at it, and the bobcat walks off and hops onto the fence. I can see my opportunity slipping away, I can see a future where the flock is no longer in existence, when keeping chickens and having fresh eggs is a distant memory.

Safety off, I raise the rifle. I am right handed and left eye dominant. I raise the rifle to my right eye. I stop. Everything becomes incredibly calm. I swap the rifle to my left hand. The bobcat looks directly at me, presenting itself broadside from 20 yards away. Daring me. I take aim and pull the trigger. No hesitation. The gun fires and the bobcat falls off the fence. I’m stunned. It was that easy.

I walk over to the fence. The bobcat is lying in the grass and twitching. I don’t know if it’s dead or wounded. Do I shoot it again? I chamber a round and shoot it again to be careful. The bobcat keeps twitching. I just stare at it. It’s beautiful and horrible all at once. My bubble of calm bursts. Suddenly my hands are shaking, blood is roaring through my ears.

I feel like I’ve crossed a threshold from one life into the next. I’ve protected my household through violence. Something completely foreign to me. Something I never thought I would have to do in my entire life. And it was easy. Because it had to be done.

Pretty soon I’ll get the bobcat pelt back from the taxidermist. It was a beautiful animal, and it will adorn my wall, a symbol and a celebration. I now have a hunting license. The freezer in my garage has two raccoon pelts. I skinned them myself. The woods behind my house contain the skeleton of an opossum. I still lose a few chickens every year to predators, but when this happens, I grab my granddads .22 and I take care of the problem. Because it has to be done. Because I am a Man, and this is my duty.