For the past couple of weeks, our chickens have refused to go into their coop at night. Every evening, we’ve had to carry them in one by one — an exhausting game of chicken Tetris. We gently place one hen inside, quickly dart back out, and slam the door shut before she can escape. Then we do it all over again. And again. And again. By the time we get to the last one, it’s a full-on battle to keep the others from bursting out the door.
We’ve been at our wit’s end.
Then, last night around dusk, Iyan and I went out to check for eggs and herd the hens once again. I casually peeked into the coop — and immediately screamed and bolted. There, lying in the middle of the coop, was something black and slithering.
A snake. In. The. Coop.
My yelling must’ve startled it, because it slithered into the nearest nesting box. It was so long that for a moment we weren’t sure if we were dealing with one snake or two. Suddenly, the chickens’ behavior made perfect sense. They had a new creepy roommate and they were not okay with it.
Ray was off working on the dirt bike track, so Iyan and I stood guard until he returned. The moment his side-by-side rolled up, we didn’t even wait for him to cut the engine before launching into our panicked report.
By now, the sun had nearly set, but he agreed — the snake had to go.
We couldn’t reach it, though. It had wedged itself behind a branch we’d installed as a roosting bar. So Ray got creative. Using PVC pipe, wire, and rope, he built a DIY snake-catching pole. The plan: lasso the snake, drop it into a five-gallon bucket, put the lid on, and take it down to the pond.
Simple, right?
Picture this: Ray with the snake pole. Me with the bucket (and a growing sense of doom). Iyan with the flashlight. Two out of three of us absolutely terrified and ready to flee. I kept picturing the snake flailing in all directions, biting the nearest target — which, of course, would be me.
Thankfully and luckily for Iyan, he was deemed “too short” to hold the flashlight steady and was relieved of duty. That left me holding both the flashlight and the bucket – which is exactly how I ended up being the world’s worst snake wrangler.
Ray’s most enthusiastic assistant? Our little black hen. She insisted on being smack in the middle of the action, curious as ever, fluttering around like she was trying to supervise the whole operation.
Meanwhile, the snake — apparently bored with our chaotic attempt at capture — decided it had had enough. It slithered out from behind the log and made a break for it.
Cue round two of my screaming.
As the snake darted out of the coop, I panicked, took off running, flashlight bouncing wildly in my hand. Ray was doing his best to stick to the lasso-the-snake plan, but with the only light source flying around like a disco strobe, he could barely see. Needless to say… the snake got away.
We haven’t seen it since — and, interestingly enough, the chickens have gone back to willingly marching into the coop each night, no protest. Clearly, they feel safer. But I have no doubt that snake will be back.
And next time? I’m buying a headlamp and some snake tongs. Or better yet — hiring a professional.
The pictures are a progression from the chickens being afraid, the first snake sighting and then snake wrangling. It was much darker than it looks in the last two pictures. A flashlight was required for the adventure!
Feathers and Phases 
Of course, Ray was the only sane one. I love the idea of you being a snake wrangler. Poor Iyan being left out of the fun!
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