If you’ve never heard of a fisher, allow me to enlighten you—and maybe convince you to keep your chickens inside a bank vault. A fisher is a weasel on steroids. Think wolverine without the charm. It’s like nature said, “You know what’s missing from the forest? A sneaky, tree-climbing land shark with anger issues and dental work that would make a piranha blush.”
These nasty creatures have one goal in life: eat everything. They have no natural predators. Except, of course, for humans… and my BWDs (Big White Dawgs).
In the wee hours this morning, when even the most caffeine-addicted rooster is still asleep, one of these fur-covered chainsaws thought it would be a great idea to swing by the Davis Cafe for a chicken dinner. We free-range our broiler chickens on our lawn, and at about 7–8 pounds each, they’re lookin’ mighty plump and ready for their “processing appointment.” Apparently, Mr. Fisher wanted an early reservation.
But what he didn’t count on was our very fluffy, very large, and very territorial bouncer: Gabriel, the King of Fluff and Defender of Chickens. Gabe was stationed, as usual, in the front yard—his version of the night shift. He’s big. He’s white. He’s part dog, part mountain. And he takes his job very seriously.
But the real surprise? The first alarm didn’t come from Gabe. It came from Libby, our 4-month-old Colorado Mountain pup who was stationed with the does in the front pasture. That pup barked like she’d just found out someone was messing with her Netflix account. Her hackles went up, she hit DEFCON 1, and let the whole valley know something nasty was coming down the driveway.
Gabe leapt into action, threw himself at the gate like a medieval knight yelling, “YOU! SHALL! NOT! PASS!” Then Remi, our senior lady down in the lower pasture, came flying up from behind the pond like she was shot out of a cannon powered by rocket fuel—ears pinned, tail high, and ready to ruin someone’s whole career.
The fisher, seeing three livid polar bears in dog suits and realizing this particular diner had a no-weasel policy enforced with teeth, did a sharp U-turn and noped its way back to the forest, probably mumbling, “Sheesh. All I wanted was a nugget.”
We didn’t lose a single bird. Not one. Take that, you bushy-tailed death ferret.
And little Libby? Oh, she was struttin’ like she’d just earned her stripes—which she had. Gabe and Remi both gave her the canine equivalent of a standing ovation: some proud tail wags, a nose boop, and what I’m pretty sure was a muttered, “Well done, Grasshopper.”
I’m telling you, this pup’s got the makings of a real guardian. Big bark. Big heart. No patience for nonsense. And a firm belief that chickens are friends, not food.
So if you’re ever
thinking about inviting a fisher to dinner, just know this:
At the
Davis Cafe, we reserve the right to refuse service—especially if
you show up furry, uninvited, and planning to eat the patrons.
"Well done,Grasshopper!"
 |
| "OK, OK, you did good kid. Now go away!" |
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©2013 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm
4 comments:
Interesting, I have never heard of a Fisher before. Good dogs.
I've never heard of fishers before. I think I need to google this to see what they look like!
Sometimes they're (incorrectly) called a fisher cat. They're in the weasel family, not a cat. Fairly small sized animal about 10-12 lbs, sharp teeth, very viscous like a badger or wolverine. They were hunted for their fur, but conservation has protected their numbers. They're one of the few predators of porcupines. Now that the porcupine overpopulation is under control, they eat people's cats, small dogs, and chickens. They're fearless because they have virtually no animal that will attack them, except humans - and my very brave canine beasts.
I looked at the picture, and they do look fierce!
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