THE HEN HOUSE

     The first hen house my parents had was a small shed which I hated. That was because it always seemed to be the one I would have to go and clean it out. Every Saturday, never failed. I cringed and between the chicken shit smell and those tiny red mites, I shuddered, and cursed the occasional "chicken hawk". I worked as fast as I could to get out of there.
     Dad then renovated the log building that was in the barn yard and put the chickens in there. He built a long box from one end of the building to the other
end of the building and put in dividers. There the hens settled in quite contentedly and laid their eggs. This was fine for a few years until the weasel dug its way into the hen house and raised  pandemonium.
    The night the weasel raised havoc, my younger sister, Aline and I were at home alone. Mom and Dad had gone somewhere, can't remember where now. I heard the chickens raise a raucous. The only thing that I could think of that would bother the hens in the hen house was an animal of some sort that had gotten into the hen house. I ran out of the house and across the yard to where the hen house was and opened the door. As I looked inside I saw the weasel, it looked at me and I looked at it and I screamed at it. Somewhere along the way I had picked up a stick of some kind, can't think what it was anymore. Chickens squawked, the weasel snarled, I was screaming at it and with all the commotion, it took off at a fast pace back through the hole it had made.
     I looked around to see what damage this creature  had done. I knew that weasels sucked the blood from animals like a vampire. There the chickens lay, dead and I don't remember how many there was now. I ran back up to the house, grabbed the sleigh went back to the hen house, loaded the sleigh with as many chickens as I could and took them back to the house. Next I grabbed the wheel barrel and away I went, filled it up and back to the house. Can't remember how many were left yet to get.
     I found one of the tubs mom used put it on the stove burners and filled it with water and let it come to steaming hot. Dunking in the chickens, one at a time, I began to strip off the feathers. These chickens were our winter meat, no darn weasel was going to take that away from me. I had stripped about ten of the birds, no insides were taken out as of yet, when my parents walked in the door. After a short period of shock, they let me explain what happened and took over that daunting job of cleaning all those chickens.
     Soon after that event, my father built a new building for them, but it didn't seem to keep them any safer. I was the one that usually picked the eggs at choring time and every so often see mice or rats and at different occasions muskrats. I was more afraid of it than I was of the weasel. Muscrats are terribly vicious when cornered. One time, a wild cat had climbed up into the rafters and it took dad a couple of days to get rid of it, really can't remember now how he did it, but probably shot it. No peace for the farmer its said.