We've been having a raccoon problem lately. And by "we" I mean, of course, my mother whose birding (yep, that's a verb) obsession has drawn a good deal more than Cardinals and Nuthatches to the backyard. I'm actually surprised that she has the sense to label this a legitimate "problem" instead of following what I know is instinctual for her and embrace it as an “adventure.”
The thing is, we’re (again, why am I using plural pronouns?) – she’s not particularly choosy when it comes to bringing a new life into the Hall household (human or otherwise). Our house – and yard – operates under a sort of revolving door policy. People, babies, animals, furniture, food, etc. always going in, always coming out. Can’t say I share her sentiments, but my mom welcomes all of God’s creatures with open arms and loads of leftovers. Including skunks. Including stay felines with more diseases than a homeless prostitute from 18th century Europe. So.
So. I was surprised when she finally broke down and admitted that, although cute and cuddly from the distance of her wildlife magazines, she could no longer tolerate a 20-pound scavenger who was destroying her birdfeeders and devouring her birdseed.
I don’t like to think that I ever take Paul for granted, but it’s times like these when I especially appreciate his masculine I-can-put-this-together-in-5-seconds-flat approach to life. He set the trap with almost frightful eagerness, offering to grab his bowie knife, you know, in case my mom wanted a bloody pulp of fur to deal with in the morning. Thanks, Paul!
8 am comes around, and we race to the yard like tykes on Christmas morning. Yow-za. We had caught the Goliath of raccoons. And boy was he pissed-off. He was sputtering (in a non-rabies way…) and clawing, and there was no way in hell I was going near him. Naturally, Paul, being the can-do kind of man that he is, swooped up that cage (with gloves on, of course) and threw it into the back of his Volvo to trek it out to the country.
Relief. Except, maybe, for my mom who “felt bad for the poor thing since he might have a family in the area and now he’s going to be thrust into a foreign environment where he won’t know any of the other raccoons.”
Yeah.
That was about 3 weeks ago. And apparently Rocky still has some friends carousing the streets of Clarence because my mom’s birdfeeders continue to receive thrashings in the night. We set the trap again last Saturday. This time I was the one who felt guilty: “but it’s pouring rain, and what if he drowns!? Or catches pneumonia!??”
He didn’t catch so much as a cold. Because we didn’t catch him. No, we caught something much, much better. After a night of Monopoly and alcohol (always a good mix) at my sister’s, I knew something was up when my mom told us to check out the cage.
Hello Mr. Skunk.
Now what do we do!?! I literally had to google “how to release a skunk from a cage when you’re too moronic to get rid one lousy stinkin’ raccoon”
So, he’s still on the prowl. Demolishing one bird lover’s paradise at a time.
The thing is, we’re (again, why am I using plural pronouns?) – she’s not particularly choosy when it comes to bringing a new life into the Hall household (human or otherwise). Our house – and yard – operates under a sort of revolving door policy. People, babies, animals, furniture, food, etc. always going in, always coming out. Can’t say I share her sentiments, but my mom welcomes all of God’s creatures with open arms and loads of leftovers. Including skunks. Including stay felines with more diseases than a homeless prostitute from 18th century Europe. So.
So. I was surprised when she finally broke down and admitted that, although cute and cuddly from the distance of her wildlife magazines, she could no longer tolerate a 20-pound scavenger who was destroying her birdfeeders and devouring her birdseed.
I don’t like to think that I ever take Paul for granted, but it’s times like these when I especially appreciate his masculine I-can-put-this-together-in-5-seconds-flat approach to life. He set the trap with almost frightful eagerness, offering to grab his bowie knife, you know, in case my mom wanted a bloody pulp of fur to deal with in the morning. Thanks, Paul!
8 am comes around, and we race to the yard like tykes on Christmas morning. Yow-za. We had caught the Goliath of raccoons. And boy was he pissed-off. He was sputtering (in a non-rabies way…) and clawing, and there was no way in hell I was going near him. Naturally, Paul, being the can-do kind of man that he is, swooped up that cage (with gloves on, of course) and threw it into the back of his Volvo to trek it out to the country.
Relief. Except, maybe, for my mom who “felt bad for the poor thing since he might have a family in the area and now he’s going to be thrust into a foreign environment where he won’t know any of the other raccoons.”
Yeah.
That was about 3 weeks ago. And apparently Rocky still has some friends carousing the streets of Clarence because my mom’s birdfeeders continue to receive thrashings in the night. We set the trap again last Saturday. This time I was the one who felt guilty: “but it’s pouring rain, and what if he drowns!? Or catches pneumonia!??”
He didn’t catch so much as a cold. Because we didn’t catch him. No, we caught something much, much better. After a night of Monopoly and alcohol (always a good mix) at my sister’s, I knew something was up when my mom told us to check out the cage.
Hello Mr. Skunk.
Now what do we do!?! I literally had to google “how to release a skunk from a cage when you’re too moronic to get rid one lousy stinkin’ raccoon”
So, he’s still on the prowl. Demolishing one bird lover’s paradise at a time.
3 comments:
This was hilarious. Can you please be a commentator on aspects of my life as well?
oh could I?!
I hope Nebraska was fun (that is where you were, right?)
It was pretty great except that I got an excessive speeding ticket in Ohio on the way back. I miss my sister and all the kiddies too much already.
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