Uncannery Ambush

Uncannery Row was the scene of hidden horrors and ensuing mayhem this morning. We were sleeping in after late-night carousing at the traditional Labor Day potluck. The party has been going on yearly for 20+ years and, after moving locations a couple of times, is now at the country home of friends. There’s nothing quite like it anywhere. I would guess that well over 100 people show up to stake out their lawn chair spots then spread several tables with the most exceptional food around, accoutrement for the fabulous pork roasted by the hosts. Various musicians play all night long, friends reconnect, dance, eat, drink, and there’s even a retired U. professor who twirls her fiery baton wearing a sequined costume she still fits into perfectly after 40 years. She twirled last night to “Oh Mama, Mama” by Commander Cody. But I digress…

So at around 10:00 this morning, we awoke to the entire flock of peacocks calling. They have several calls, but one, which sounds like hee-haw, is used to locate other flock members. Another honking sound is used by hens to gather chicks that have wandered too far off. So the flock was hee-hawing and honking like crazy, out by the north pasture’s roof-high wild sunflowers. We went outside and saw all the adults, but not a baby in sight. By noon, 5 of the 7 babies had reappeared, but the flock was obviously rattled and hunkered down by the greenhouse windows, where they continued to call. By late afternoon, the flock seemed resigned to the loss of 2 of the 4 Abba quads, as the calling had stopped. By 6:00 tonight, one more of the quads had found its was back from the nether regions. So as the birds jockey tonight for positions in the communal sleeping tree, it appears that now we are 14 instead of 15.

We figure a fox or maybe a raccoon caught the flock out in the pasture, where predators have excellent sunflower cover (Ray went out almost immediately and mowed pastures until the mower tire went flat). Whatever it was, it seems to have nabbed one baby and scattered the rest, and it took a long, worried day to get the survivors back together.

I admit to crying just for a minute this afternoon as I listened to the hens call and call. I can’t say what peahens feel, but I imagine hope, heartache, love, and an occasional profound sense of helplessness--I have chicks, too.