Moon over Martinborough

As I approached the chook house early in the morning with a bucket of chicken feed and a flashlight, I heard something flapping around over in the chicken run.

Native NZ short-tailed bat - image from Department of Conservation

I couldn’t see a thing in the dark, but the sound reminded me of what we used to hear at night in the trees during summer vacation in Northern Michigan. Bats.

Was there a bat in our chicken run?

I’ve never seen bats in New Zealand like I used to see in Michigan, although I know bats are the only native land mammals here, so they do exist.

The chickens were still sleeping in the chook house. I set my bucket down and shined my flashlight into the run. Suddenly, on the other side of the chicken wire, something brown whipped by in a blur. Then it was gone.

Whatever it was, with my luck it probably had very sharp teeth, carried rabies, and had a penchant for blood. And it was in my chicken run.

I turned the latch and opened the door. Fwap! It went through the air again, right near my head. I ducked just in time, and I heard it hit the chicken wire.

Now I was on my guard. This evil, blood-sucking native New Zealand vampire bat was not going to make a meal out of me.

Then, the most horrible thing happened. It came right for me, flying towards my chest. Any idiot could see it was going directly for my heart.

Or wait, was it flying toward the flashlight?

I dodged to the left. It swooped past me and clung to the chicken wire to my right. Then I turned my flashlight toward it, and for the first time I saw that ungodly monster in all its terrifying splendor. It was a tiny, brown-grey creature with a short tail and a small (but clearly very powerful) beak.

It was a sparrow.

This was even worse than a vampire bat.

Scaly leg mites

Almost three months ago now I wrote about how one of our chickens has scaly leg mites. The mites spread quickly, and are hard to get rid of.

Chicken run and hay shed at dusk

Sparrows (along with other wild birds) carry scaly leg mites.

For three months Rick and I have been treating our chickens’ legs with vaseline to suffocate the mites.

The first time I did it alone, during the day, and I ended with chicken blood on my boot, so now Rick and I always do it together, at night, when the chickens are asleep and placid.

At our house Monday night is scaly leg mite night. Don’t ever let it be said we don’t know how to have fun. I hold the bird while Rick greases its legs with vaseline. Who would have thought, back when we were a young couple in our mid-twenties, dating and enjoying the night life of Chicago, that we would eventually be reduced to this?

The treatment is working. The sickest bird has started laying, which is a good sign, and her legs are slowly changing – from a bumpy yellow to a smooth yellow and lately with increasing spots of healthy brown. Her normal scales are growing back slowly.

But now, this sparrow in the chicken run threatened to ruin everything!

Our chooks could easily become reinfected. After three months of dedicated scaly leg mite nights, I wasn’t about to let that happen.

Banish the sparrow

Evil sparrow - image from Wikipedia

I turned and looked at that little sparrow in the dark. It flew around a bit more, clearly confused. It kept flying at my flashlight, perhaps thinking it was some opening to the sky.

I shooed and waived with my one free hand. But the sparrow couldn’t see me.

It flew back and forth from one end of the run to the other, banging into things, banging into me, never once going towards the open door. I was running around after it, of course. It was flying circles around me. I nearly tripped on the water dispenser several times.

If there’s one thing more pathetic than a sparrow that’s flying around in the dark, it’s a city boy who’s shooing a sparrow that’s flying around in the dark.

I yelled and grunted and howled. But I couldn’t get it to fly out the door. Whenever it landed, I considered trying to catch it, but I didn’t want to hurt it.

Finally I tried shining the flashlight on the open doorway and shooing the bird in that direction. That did the trick. The sparrow flew out and into the dark paddock. It was gone.

I was triumphant. I was the vanquisher of disease-carrying sparrows.

The next morning, when I came back to the chook house to feed the chickens, I did not find one sparrow. I found three.

Free sparrow food

Clearly the first sparrow didn’t mind being shut up in the chicken run all night, and he’d come back with several of his closest friends to eat our chicken feed.

Thus began a ritual. Every morning I chased sparrows out of the chicken run. Every weekend I would inspect the chicken run for any tiny, sparrow-sized openings. I cut chicken wire into small bits and stuffed up every knot-hole and gap I could find.

Every morning, I would return to the chicken run to find at least two sparrows, bellies full on chicken feed and flying around in a panic.

They are the evil spawn of satan, sent to make my life hell.

I wish I could say I have finally found the spot where they’re getting in, but I cannot. This has become an obsession. I have become a bird crazy Elmer Fudd. “I’ll get those wascally spawwows!!”

I look at the chicken run and try to think like a sparrow. When our city friends come out to visit, I ask them if they can see any holes big enough for a sparrow. They just look at me with a slightly concerned, blank stare.

Maybe I just need to come to terms with it all and accept the sparrows’ enigmatic entry into our chicken run as a part of the mystery of life. I could perhaps think of it as just another unexplained phenomenon in the world, like the Loch Ness Monster or the Bermuda Triangle.

For those of you who are wise and spiritually evolved, perhaps that’s what you’d do.

As for me, this afternoon I’ll be checking the chicken run for holes again.

–

Read the next post: Dad never saw this place

Or read other posts about our chickens.

This entry was posted on Saturday, September 19th, 2009 at 12:10 pm and is filed under Chickens, New Zealand. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.