Do you ever see wild animals?
When I opened the chicken coop that morning, I wasn’t expecting to scream. But I did—three times, to be precise. Feathers flew, the hens panicked, and my heart nearly jumped clear out of my chest. When the dust settled, I identified the culprit: an opossum, curled up in the nesting box, snoring like a tiny, gray squatter. My pulse thundered, but the little thing didn’t stir. Apparently, I was the only one on the verge of collapse.
After the raccoon incident last spring, I had reason to be jumpy. They’d once reached through a wire mesh and pulled baby chicks right out—a brutal lesson in how clever nature can be when it’s hungry. Around here, nature keeps its own rules—and they aren’t always gentle. So when an opossum showed up snoozing beside our hens, my instincts kicked in. Unfortunately, “brave wildlife wrangler” wasn’t on my resume that morning—I had to put my toddler daughter down for a nap. My sister, however, was the right person to call.
She arrived an hour later, shovel in hand, wearing the calm expression of someone who has handled worse. Without hesitation, she opened the back door of the coop, nudged the opossum awake, and guided it—shovel-first—outside. The little creature hissed in protest, baring tiny teeth, but my sister never flinched. One scoop later, it landed outside, shuffled under an old farm implement, and vanished. The hens went back to clucking. My sister went home victorious. I finished nursing my daughter to sleep, pretending this kind of thing was perfectly normal.
Truthfully, it kind of is. Our land is constantly playing host to surprise guests. The woodchucks treat the woodpile like a duplex. Raccoons stage midnight banquets and leave muddy little handprints like criminal calling cards. Deer glide across the fields, angelic in the moonlight, until morning reveals the carnage in our cornfield. It’s a full-time exercise in humility.
But over time, I’ve learned that living this close to the wild means surrendering a little control. The yard isn’t just ours; it’s a shared space with creatures who couldn’t care less about ownership or order. While raccoons steal, deer trample, and opossums nap in the henhouse, they somehow teach patience and perspective. Parenthood’s a lot like that too—messy, unpredictable, full of surprises that hiss when disturbed—but beautiful all the same.
That morning in the coop didn’t make me braver, exactly, but it made me grateful. Coexistence isn’t neat or noble—it’s loud, imperfect, and occasionally armed with a shovel. The wild doesn’t ask permission; it just shows up, dares you to scream, and reminds you that even the chaos is part of the story.
If this story gave you a laugh—or made you think twice before opening your chicken coop—give it a like. Share it with a friend who loves a good rural adventure. Subscribe for more tales from life on the slightly wild side.
Related Posts
How to Cut Down a Tree in 28 Easy Steps (from my husband’s perspective)
A hilarious step-by-step look at one man’s chaotic attempt to cut down a tree—with chainsaws, skid loaders, family commentary, and sweet tea mishaps along the way.
Keep reading
If You Buy Your Wife a Chicken
If you buy your wife a chicken, she’ll inevitably need a coop. If you build your wife a coop, she will need some feed. If you think ground feed is too expensive, you need to buy a tractor, corn planter, grain drill, and combine. If you plant too much grain to feed the chickens, she’ll…
Keep reading
Sourdough Bread
To me, sourdough is both fascinating and frustrating. How can something based only on simple pantry staples: flour, water, and salt, result in such a delicious cornerstone food of society? Once you attempt your first few loaves, you begin to understand. There’s a certain alchemy in the starter, the captured yeast on which the success…
Keep reading
Practical Homesteading 