Free Rose in a Storm by Jon Katz

nowhere to be seen. There were feathers on the barn floor, and tracks and blood in the snow and ice on the cement.
    At first, it seemed she was too late. She saw where a fox must have slipped in, through a wind-shattered window above the chicken roost. At the rear of the barn, which was built into an incline, the ground came up nearly to the windows, and the snow would have made it easy for the fox to get the rest of the way. It was a savvy way to get at the chickens without coming through the main doors of the barn.
    Winston, she saw, would have been the first to see the fox creep along the platform, around the old hay bales, toward the chicken coop. Winston would have darted in front of the hens, one of which had panicked and rushed across to try to hide in a corner. That was where Rose found the fox, stalking the hen. Rose sensed other foxes must be nearby, waiting for a signal from this one. That was what the yipping had been—a signal.
    Rose heard the wild dog barking, circling, and she could see him struggling, limping, unable to jump. He was weak and confused. The fox—poised—was watching him, sizing him up, but he did not run. The wild dog was no threat.
    As always, a strategy came instantly to Rose’s mind.
    Winston was desperately trying to draw the fox off and distract him by puffing himself up and crowing as loudly as he could. The wild dog was barking, but could not get close.
    The fox, who could have easily killed Winston, was notdistracted or fooled. He was down in a crouch, ready to strike, to grab the hen by the throat and carry her up and out through the nearby window. Winston puffed up his wings again and prepared to charge the fox, to sacrifice himself, if necessary.
    Rose hesitated and thought of Sam, of sounding the alarm. Part of her work was to alert him when there was trouble. But there was no time to get him. If she left the barn, she knew that the fox, gray and sleek, efficient and quick, would soon be long gone, at least one hen along with him. So she stayed.
    Rose moved quickly but calmly across the barn floor, jumped up onto a hay bale and onto the platform that supported the roost. She glanced at the wild dog, keeping him back. It wasn’t necessary. She knew he could not jump or fight, and his barking would help unnerve, perhaps even distract, the fox.
    Rose barked, went into a crouch, showed her teeth, and jumped onto a feed sack to gain height, and then charged across the dark, wooden floor. The roosts were between her and the fox, momentarily blocking his view of her.
    Then she whirled around and faced him.
    The fox, momentarily uncertain, spun but held his ground, a hen circling in panic behind him. The fox was alert and low, with bright blue-gray eyes. And he was very calm, looking Rose in the eye, considering her, gauging his situation. Rose saw that he was not afraid of her.
    Winston rushed around her to get himself in front of the hen, to make a last stand, if necessary. Rose imagined the fox snapping this officious bird in two, however gallant he was.
    She moved closer, matching the fox’s cool with her own, an old and ritualistic dance. It was a test of nerves and strategy, not necessarily strength and power. She would use her eyes—her keenest weapon—as well as her teeth. Rose always battledbigger and stronger creatures. Her eyes caused them to pause, made them uncertain.
    Rose came within inches of the fox, who bared his teeth, lowered his head, and refused to give ground. He lunged at her, and she backed up, growling slowly, steadily, and then she moved off to the right of the fox, making him turn, as she circled around behind him in a sudden herding move, lunging forward, nipping at his tail and haunches. She saw in his eyes that he had lost a measure of his calm. He’d never seen this sort of movement before. He had been expecting a charge, a fight.
    The fox lunged and nipped at her shoulder, but got only fur, and Rose lowered her head and tore at his throat, drawing