Earlier this week, I walked out to the bird pen, lovingly called "Big Jim's Poultry Palace" (after my Dad), and noticed the floor looked like someone had been using pillows for target practice all night long. Bad sign.
The closer I looked, the worse it got. There were feather-covered mounds on the ground that weren't moving. Crap. Not good.
My eyes scanned, looking for the cause. Birds don't generally just spontaneously die in multiples. I noticed a small hole dug into the ground under one of the side walls, not much bigger than a baseball, with claw scratches in the fresh dirt outside.
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