Night before last, at about 10 o'clock, we had our first experience with a weasel. In all the years I've lived on a farm I'd never seen a weasel. I'd heard about the way they can slip into a seemingly pest proof henhouse, that weasels get blood lust and just kill and kill until all of the hens are dead.
Brian suddenly remembered we hadn't gotten the mail. So he hopped in the Honda and headed up the driveway. A minute later, he came backing down the driveway like a NASCAR driver stuck in reverse.
He hopped into the house (he has a very sore knee, but that's different story) yelling, "Weasel! Get out of the way!" He snatched up his 22 rifle and headed back out the door. A few seconds later mom and I counted upwards of 10 shots fired.
Geez, I thought. There must be a whole herd of weasels in the hen pen. A few minutes later Brian came triumphantly through the door.
"What happened?" Mom asked.
Brian gave us all the gory details. When he'd gone to get the mail he heard the commotion in the hen pen and went to check it out. There was the weasel with his pointy little teeth embedded in my favorite Buff Orpington.
"Just one weasel? So why all the gunshots?" I asked. Well it seems the the first shot put the poor little frightened hen out of her misery, then the weasel tried to escape so most of the other shots chased him back into the hen pen so he couldn't get away. The last shot dispatched the little maurauder. We're hoping he doesn't have cousins, aunts and uncles out there waiting to dispatch the 6 remaining hens some dark night.