We are used to Geisha sleeping under our window snoring through the night. Sometimes it wakes us, most times we can filter it out, its background noise like a fridge humming.
Last night we were woken by the sounds of murder in the hen house. Tracey got there first and found it had been emptied except for the white hen that survived Kitlers attack a few months back. There are rumours that urban foxes are trapped and released on the hills around us, they, having no idea how to hunt anything more animated than a bin are allegedly hunting in packs.
After a pointless search of Rock HQs extensive cliffs and gullies we went back to bed at half four leaving the horses wondering why we were up so early, and, more importantly, if we had made the effort to get up the hill to see them why didn't we take an early breakfast. Tracey had seen a fox just before I got to her, it was intent on collecting the last white hen so we, and she, were lucky.
In the dreak light of day we found evidence of more than one fox had been here. A classic pincer movement, the barn was robbed of its two Black Rocks that perch above the pigs, the feather and chaos of the visit was everywhere. In the lane a sad collection of pretty gold feathers from the bantams, by the kennel the striped grey and whites of the Marron and inside the hen house more black rock decorated the floor. Total is six hens missing presumed dead.
I don't think it was a pack of urban foxes, more likely a Vixen and cubs. Once The Great To Do is over I will have to dedicate some time to sorting them out. 80 birds in 12 months is a bit greedy.