Wolfie and the Missing Pullet

Here is a story from when we lived in the wilds of southern Vermont:

This morning we moved the hens to their new pasture in the field in front of the house. First we set up the portable fence, then we moved the chicken tractor, the shade shelter, the pullets’ food dish, the hens’ food dish, and the water dish. Next we went to herd the hens, who by now were wandering all over the field, into the enclosure. The four fat Buff Orpingtons ambled serenely towards their new home. But when we went back for the three pullets (two Rhode Island Reds and one Barred Rock), they were nowhere to be seen.

This being summer, the grass was thick and tall, and the pullets had vanished into it. My husband and I waded fruitlessly through the field a while, and then I said, “it’s time to get Wolfie.”

Wolfie , our big, black German Shepherd, has helped me locate chickens before. He finds them under bramble and thicket, pins them down with his mouth and holds them for me. It’s a pretty fraught scene: the chicken, with good reason, screams bloody murder, and I scream “gently, gently!!!” at Wolfie. Although he’s never broken the skin, he’s no Lab, and a “soft mouth” is not in his genes.

I let Wolfie out of the house and gave the official command, “Chickens! Find the chickens!” He dove into the grass where the old enclosure had been, ate a couple of hen poops to get himself in the mood, and went searching. Pretty soon he flushed the two Rhode Island Reds. My husband caught one and put her in the pen, but the second one fluttered off in the direction of the woods.

“Wolfie, with me!” I called, “find the chickens!” and we plunged into the woods. It was a hot day, and I was wearing a dress. Remember that scene in Walt Disney’s Snow White where she’s lost in the woods and the trees reach out and grab her dress? That was me this morning, stepping through brambles and over fallen logs, looking for that chicken. But I couldn’t even tell where Wolfie was, much less the chicken.

Eventually Wolfie lost interest in the woods and took off in the direction of the new chicken pasture. “No, Wolfie!” my husband and I yelled, “over here! Find the chicken!” And he, being a good dog, came to us, sniffed around a bit, and suddenly gave one of those leaps and nose-dives that wolves do when they’re catching mice–and there was the Barred Rock pullet, in his jaws. I asked him to let me have her and put her, none the worse for wear, among her sisters. Wolfie followed me over and circled the pen a couple of times, looking intent.

But the second Rhode Island Red was still unaccounted for, so I made Wolfie go back into the woods. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and he kept running back to the pen and circling it. “Yes, I know,” I said. “Those are chickens. But I need the other chicken. Find the other chicken!”

Poor Wolfie. I remembered what I had read in a book about search-and-rescue operations: “Trust the dog” the book said, and told an anecdote in which the searchers, sure that the lost child was going north-northeast, kept scolding the dog for going south-southwest, until they gave up and followed the dog, and found the child.

“Trust the dog!” I told myself as I watched Wolfie return to the pen and circle it. But it just didn’t make any sense, so once again I made him follow me towards the woods.  By now the sun was high, my legs were bleeding, and Wolfie, panting hard and looking annoyed, turned tail and headed for the house. “I guess he’s not a high-drive dog,” I sighed.

For the next couple of hours, I worried about that pullet. Our woods are rife with fishers, weasels, and owls, and I knew she would not survive if she stayed out all night. After lunch, I wandered down the driveway, and as I passed the chicken pen I stopped to say hello–and there, under the shade shelter, looking perky, were all three pullets.

There are two possible explanations for this. One is that Wolfie flushed the missing pullet out of the woods and she ran unseen through the tall grass to the field next to the pen, where Wolfie forced her to squeeze through the bottom of the fence, which doesn’t sit exactly flush with the ground. That would explain his persistence in circling the pen, and his lack of interest in searching elsewhere once all the hens were inside. It would also confirm my belief in his genius.

The other explanation is that, after we gave up the chase and went into the house, the errant pullet came out of the woods and, like a heat-seeking missile, crossed the field, trotted across the driveway, circled the fence until she found an opening, and pushed her way in. Occam’s Razor says that the simplest hypothesis is usually the correct one. So which is the simpler explanation: the intelligence, determination, and homing instinct of a pullet, or the brilliance of Wolfie? You tell me.