The Case of the Disappearing Peafowl

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Dahl, Rapid City - peacock made of silverware.

If you followed my earlier peacock blogs, then you know that 2012—a drought year that drove almost all wildlife to scrounge for nontraditional food—was a rough year for the flock. No chicks were hatched here this year, and after a couple of unsuccessful nesting attempts (something(s) ate all the eggs in two rounds of laying), most of the flock took off for greener, more predator-free parts unknown. So here at the Row, we’re down to 4 birds—2 males and 2 females. Since we typically lose a bird or two over the winter, we’re really down to critical mass as far as the flock is concerned.

We made a single bold attempt to go the pragmatic, stoic homesteader route this summer. We bought live animal traps and set them in the barn. The first night, we caught a very large mama raccoon. The next day, I hauled the cage out to the yard, then I sat in the grass and talked to her about why she was in the cage. I explained that if she’d stuck to frogs and toads and hadn’t started dining on peacocks, she wouldn’t be in that predicament. I called my near-son-in-law over, and our plan was to load the raccoon up—cage and all—in his car, and release her at the river. But then we noticed she had already chewed through several bars of the trap. The vision of her getting out of the cage in his car and wrapping herself around his head while he was driving her to the river was just too ugly, so we decided we would have to buck up and shoot her. He did the dirty work—he talked to her for a long while, shot her, then prayed over her. It was an emotionally-wrenching day for both of us (and a tragic day for Mama Raccoon, too). I’m a huge fan of Yukon Men, with their homemade corrals of strung-together beaver and badger pelts, but I know now that two semi-Buddhist, bleeding-heart pacifists will probably never be good trappers. So I’m in the process of turning the traps into planters.

My peacock teapot.

Anyway, maybe the peaflock’s dwindling numbers are the Universe’s way of lightening my post-stroke workload. I miss the peacocks, don’t get me wrong—at one point, our flock was up to 28 birds—watching them, feeding them, picking up those long eye feathers in the fall…it all brings me great joy. But I’m trying to practice my best compassionate detachment, learning to trust in and be grateful for the wisdom of the Universe.

Jada, Yogi, and a dsplaying peacock.

I keep hoping the flock is out there somewhere, happy & healthy & slowly making their way back home. But they aren't homing pigeons, and their brains are really VERY tiny. Then my friend L told a story about her dad herding wayward geese home with a frontloader because they weren’t smart enough to find their own way. I can picture the peas out there somewhere, wandering in circles and wondering where their corn & cat food buffet went. We don’t have a frontloader, so another option might be to bring in some new peafowl next spring and re-invent our flock, just as I’m re-inventing myself after the stroke. Seems fitting somehow. And now that we know Barack’s in for another term, maybe I can get a peafowl husbandry grant....For now, though, I’m just thrilled to see our 4 remaining peacocks wandering about, and for “occupational therapy,” I’m knitting them all reflective orange safety vests for the hunting/holiday season.