EDITOR’S NOTE: This post has nothing to do with our work overseas. It DOES have a lot to do with our website though, as my desire for a platform to share this story on was the impetus behind starting our own website. Thanks, Dad!

My Dad was a State Trooper for 28 years. Throughout that time, he was known to be a solid cop, who handled himself professionally and did his job well. He retired from the force a few years ago and has since happily transitioned to civilian life in our small town.

Since leaving the law enforcement realm, he hasn’t been puked on by a drunk, yelled at by a speeding ticket recipient, or accosted by a substance abuser. He has made a clean break with such “action-packed” episodes and has moved on to a simpler life.

Now his days are filled with cathartic activities, like clearing brush on his property, feeding his chickens, and splitting firewood. He doesn’t have to deal with criminal mischief anymore.

Or so he had thought…

It was a little past midnight when my dad was awakened by a cacophony of squawking and shrieking from his chicken coop. Being a veteran chicken owner, he was able to assess from the sounds he was hearing that the situation was an “alpha level” disturbance. A quick response-time would be crucial.

He leapt out of bed, clad in boxers and undershirt, threw on his boots (there was still snow on the ground), grabbed his flashlight and the closest available weapon he could reach, and ran out the door. And by “weapon” I mean, in this case, a “yellow whiffle-ball bat.”*

He sprinted, borderline starkers, across the yard to the coop, threw open the door, and found a scene of absolute pandemonium. Feathers (and chickens) were flying everywhere, screeching in terror. A brutally ravaged hen was lying on the floor, dead. And a weasel was ducking and darting through the mayhem in sheer delight, a picture of undiluted carnivorous glee.

Dad, recalling his many years of experience as a professional keeper of the peace, leapt into action! He raised his hollow plastic bat above his head and, with expert precision, brought it down hard on…nothing. The weasel had rolled to the left, like a little furry streak of lightning, and dodged him completely.

He swung again, and again missed entirely. This time (he says), the weasel paused to look at him and “grin in a very cocky way.” This put my dad into a bit of a temper. He threw caution to the wind and resumed his attack with a highly developed style of combat, known colloquially as, “flailing wildly.”

He beat the floor! He hit the walls! He scattered feathers and manure into the air! He even nailed a chicken a couple of times!

[*THWAP!*…*THWAP!*… *THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!*]

He wreaked destruction on everything in his immediate vicinity! Everything, of course, except the weasel (who, my dad maintains, was utilizing reflexive abilities bordering on precognition).

[I should probably mention here, that My dad’s chicken coop is only 8 ft. x 8 ft., so this altercation was pretty much taking place in a large closet.]

As my dad leaned against the wall of the coop, catching his breath, things progressed from murder/assault to a hostage situation: The weasel had grabbed a hen (a very alive hen) by the leg, pulled it outdoors, and was dragging it, squawking and flapping, across the chicken yard.

With renewed vigor, Dad doubled his efforts, swinging and swatting his dented bat at the pair of animals trying to separate them. He estimates that his batting average was something along the lines of: 70% misses, 20% poultry, 10% weasel. Though not the most efficient of assaults, it proved enough to free the hen from the weasel’s grasp.

Now, Dad was standing between the (literally) brow-beaten hen and the spitting-mad weasel. I don’t know if it was because this particular weasel was especially aggressive, or that the sight of my dad standing in his underwear in the moonlight painted a less-than-threatening picture in his predator brain, but the little devil still refused to give up.

Hissing and hopping sideways, he continued to try to outflank my dad and get back at the traumatized hen, all the while staying just out of range of the whiffle-ball bat. Finally, seeing that the hen was no longer out in the open, Dad swung the door to the coop shut and locked it. He still couldn’t land a blow on his new-found nemesis, so he made a few parting comments, and traipsed back to the house.

Just as he was opening the door to go inside though, the sounds of a fresh chicken/weasel altercation met his ears. Confused, he ran back to the chicken yard only to find that the hen that he had thought had gone back into the coop had merely wandered around the corner and had ended up locked outside (it goes without saying that chickens hold little in the “natural defenses” and “self-preservation” departments).

This time, Dad charged and yelled, which startled the weasel enough that it released the hen. They then commenced what I believe is probably the greatest chase scene that the moon has ever witnessed, wherein a middle-aged man in his undershorts pursued a furry slinky across his snowy front lawn, wielding a piece of pre-school sports equipment like a samurai warrior.

After several circuits of the yard, the weasel finally called it quits and ducked into the woods at the edge of the lawn. Dad went back to the chicken yard, sweating and panting, kicked the beleaguered hen back inside, shut the door and went back to bed.

I about died laughing when Dad told me this story. It turned out this wasn’t the end of it though.

Dad searched the whole chicken coop the next day, trying to figure out how the weasel had gotten in. A weasel can get through a hole the size of a quarter, so he looked closely, but he couldn’t find any point of entry.

The next night, he was awakened by another riot behind the house, but this time he was ready: He had set aside a loaded 12 gauge, just in case.**

He grabbed his gun and his flashlight, and headed for the chicken coop, looking like a rustic member of SEAL Team 6, engaged in urban conflict (again, sans pants). He found a similar scene as before, and entered into the fray, guns blazing (again, literally)!

Here’s the thing about trying to shoot a small, hyperactive mammal with a long gun, in a confined space, surrounded by terrified and flapping “assets,” while holding a flashlight…it’s pretty much impossible. And quite hysterical.

He managed to fire off two rounds, each of which blasted a new quarter-sized hole through the structure (one through the floor, the other through the wall). The weasel, recognizing that his adversary had turned the corner from “ornery chicken keeper” to “homicidal maniac,” made a quick exit through my dad’s legs and out into woods.

Dad gave all his chickens away the next day.

What’s really ironic about this whole thing is that my Dad’s nickname on the force used to be “The Mongoose,” because he would take on big bad guys, and come out the winner, even though he was only 5’ 9”.

A mongoose, as you might know, is basically an African weasel.  

*He tries to blame this on the fact that he had been playing with our boys that afternoon, so the bat was conspicuously placed near the front door. Right, Dad, it’s the grandkids’ fault…

**My parents live out in the country, a ½ mile from their nearest neighbor.