The Culprit

Yesterday, Finley told me she thought something had killed one our black hens. Black feathers were all over the coop. I went to investigate, and sure enough, just outside the chicken run lay the body of one of my good layers. When I went to pitch her torn-up carcass into the woods, I noticed a couple piles of raccoon scat.

So, last night, I decided to lock all the birds up tight, and after suckering them all into the chicken run with some scratch, determined that three birds in all were missing. I set up a trap with an egg in it just outside the little door the varmint would have used to get into the coop and went to bed.

At 5 a.m., my eyes popped open, and I went to let the birds out and check the trap:

I moved it to a shady spot in the stable to await its fate.

And just for fun, here is a shot of Max after he tore across the yard in early-morning mania and scaled a post by the stable. This is why people should not bother firemen with silly requests to rescue cats.