coonageddon.

Is animals taking over the world in Revelations as part of the end times?  Could someone with a deeper knowledge of theology weigh in on this?  Dad?  Because they are, taking over the world I mean.  And we are right in the middle of it.  I have had to do things in the last couple of weeks that I’ve never dreamed of and would vow to never speak of again if it wasn’t for you and the comfortable certainty that you’ll not hate me for it.  Things that involve maggots and mice and vomit in my mouth.  Every time I open the chicken feed bin, there is a mouse inside just nibbling away on the bounty of my stolen generosity.  It made me angry enough one time that I marched inside, grabbed a gun from the boys’ arsenal and tried to shoot that bugger into eternity.  Except that the darn thing was jammed, emitting only a poof of air that scared us both, me and the mouse, and made me scream.  This problem repeated itself enough times that eventually the mouse, after checking himself for holes, called my bluff and calmly resumed eating.  Lucy, my duplicitous pardner, stood as my second, armed with a defunct bb pistol she found in the garage and wearing undies and pink cowgirl boots.  She stood making pow pow sounds with her curly lips while I texted my nephew and asked him to come kill this varmint.  I did tell you that my nephew (and his family) now live practically next door, didn’t I?  I digress…
Last night found another mouse in my cracked corn, though luckily there were boys and weapons aplenty home that could end it.  I stood with my scoop, singing Jesus Friend of Sinners at the top of my lungs so I couldn’t hear the gory sounds of bb meeting mouse.  I might as well have saved my breath, because I needed it when I vomited in my mouth several minutes later as I bent over the grain bin to scoop food for the girls and discovered grisly bits of mouse all over my feed.  Do you even want to hear this?  It’s so wrong.  So not what I pictured life would be like on a bucolic rolling little acreage by a creek with four children, eighteen eleven chickens and a keloid scar named Steve.  Not even close.
Raccoons have gotten another six of my chickens.  Just vaporized them, leaving only a pile of feathers and whatever egg was being formed in their ovum.  Left that behind for me to clean up, thank you very much.  Yesterday there were 17 chickens.  Today 11.  Which, by my count, brings the tally up to 18 hens that have been eaten in the last six months.  The raccoons are wily and smart.  They’ve figured out how to lift the guillotine door, spring the traps, open the latch and do my taxes.  There is no keeping them out.  When I discovered the latest attack, I stomped my foot like a toddler and swore that I’m bleaching the hen house, installing curtains and giving it to the girls for a play house.  And we’re getting dogs.
We’re not getting a dog.  And I’m keeping the chickens, but only because it’s a matter of pride now.  Luckily, I have great boys who baited a live trap with a dead mouse and caught a raccoon so big you’d think he’s a part of Honey Boo Boo’s family.  He is out there right now, awaiting execution as soon as someone qualified comes home and thinking about what he’s done.  And I won’t watch because, as much as I’ve come to hate raccoons, I still hate seeing animals die even more.  So I’ll leave them to it while I meet my dear friend at Schulers on the couch in the Art section for a cuppa and some chat.  And when I get home, Dan will have put it all to rights again and there will be fresh eggs in the fridge for me to cook the littles tomorrow and all will be well.
Until then there is new washing machine on it’s way here and when I moved the furniture to allow them through I found a little nest like thing under a chair, where I’d only just vacuumed on Sunday (Father forgive me) and I have my suspicions that it might be mice.  Oh for the love.
This is me being real.  Wondering if they have pink pellet guns and where I can get my hands on one?  Cause this life is calling for being armed and ready in more ways than one.  And I’m wondering what varmints, real or imagined, you’re coming up against these days?  Do tell.

One Reply to “coonageddon.”

  1. You really have a delightful way of asking nana and papa to move into your house for a few days next week. do I have to bring my own trap?

    Maybe the kids would like to come here. all we've got is poopy geese, and they never stay for dinner.

    loving you deep

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s