High-pitched shrieking shattered the mid-morning calm and I knew, immediately, that there was a killer on the loose. I tore out of the patio door and across the lawn to intervene between predator and prey, facing down a fox with black tail feathers in its jaws. Shouting and growling, all animal myself, I was driven by instinct to protect our chickens, Cumulus and Burnet, from further onslaught.
The fox froze. Stared. I stared back. An unfathomable silence. Breaking the stalemate, I glanced over my shoulder, but my girls had evaporated. Moss (our third hen) is broody and spends much of her time on the nest, so I sidled over to the chicken run while still watching the fox, and there she was. Fluffsome, flat and completely unharmed.
