Monday, June 01, 2009, 20:51
A Case of Mistaken Identity
"Psssst!" Randy hissed. "Look over on the rock."
It was after dark on Sunday evening, and we had gone outside with Pixie. It was a nice evening, cool, with a few sprinkles of rain.
"What are you talking about?" I whispered back.
"The rock. Charlie's rock," Randy hissed.
Our Springer Spaniel, Charlie, is buried in the east side yard with a large rock over his grave. The sandstone rock, three to four feet in diameter, is set up on some smaller rocks to make a rock table.
"I can't see anything," I whispered. "I left my glasses in the house."
I normally wear my glasses all of the time, but now at this time of year, when the grass pollen is starting, the bridge of my nose swells up, and I sometimes take my glasses off to give my nose a break.
"There's something big on Charlie's rock," Randy hissed.
"Big?" I said.
In the meantime, while we were having this whispered conversation, Pixie was snooping around in the grass next to the porch.
"Yes, big. Is it? I think it's. . ."
"What?" I whispered.
"The raccoon," Randy hissed through clenched teeth.
We had not turned the porch light on and were standing in the dark. Charlie's rock is maybe 20 feet from the porch in the area where the security light hits, except that part of the rock happened to be in the shadows.
I could just make out something black on the rock, but with the shadows, it was hard to tell what it was.
"It IS the raccoon!" Randy hissed.
"The raccoon?" I said doubtfully.
"Shhhhh!" Randy said.
"It can't be the raccoon. Pixie would not be so unconcerned if it was," I said.
Our little Shetland sheepdog continued to snoop in the grass and had not paid the slightest attention to anything else.
My husband stalked off the porch and marched over toward the rock.
When he was halfway there, his shoulders slumped.
"Hmmmmph!" I heard him say.
He went over to the rock, picked up the black shadow and turned around.
It was our big black Tom cat, Rocky.
"It's Rocky," Randy said, sounding disgusted.
He marched back toward the house with Rocky tucked under his arm -- no small feat in itself since Rocky weighs 16 pounds. I raised Rocky and his sister, Juliette, from newborn kittens who had fallen out of the nest in the barn and I didn't know where the nest was. Rocky weighs 16 pounds and Juliette weighs eight. When they were kittens, Juliette always ate about twice as much formula as Rocky. Go figure.
Randy marched past me with the cat tucked under his arm. Rocky's head bobbed up and down with each step.
"Time for you to come in Rocky?" I said.
Rocky just looked at me as if to say, "Does it look like I have any choice?"
Randy took the cat into the house and put him in the basement. When the weather is nice, the kitties like to spend as much time as they can outside to make up for those long, cold winter days when they are stuck in the house. Actually, me, too, now that I think about it.
"I thought it was the raccoon," Randy said when he returned.
"Although," he continued, "I suppose if it had been the raccoon, Pixie would not have been so calm."
"No," I said. "She would have been right after it."
I don't know how Pixie knows, but as soon as she comes out of the house in the evening, if there's a raccoon anywhere in the yard, she knows it.
And in this case, since it was only Rocky, Pixie knew there was nothing to get excited about.
LeAnn R. Ralph
Friday, May 29, 2009, 07:58
Smoke and Noise, Powder and Patch
I was sitting at the kitchen table paying some bills Tuesday evening when I heard a cry from the bedroom.
"He's out there AGAIN!"
I knew who the "he" was -- the raccoon who has been raiding our bird feeders. He had already eaten the tomato preserves I put out for the orioles (I didn't get the bowl into the house fast enough). The raccoon is quite bold and comes while we are moving around in the house, with the lights on, television on (public television) and are washing dishes and whatnot.
I had already chased him out of the bird feeder in back of the house a couple of times. And Randy had chased him out a couple of times too. I had even gone out and opened the door of Randy's truck and beeped the horn when I knew the raccoon had gone up into the big pine tree out back. Randy leaves the truck parked by the pine tree, so it seemed like a great opportunity for me to make some noise.
And now, apparently, the raccoon was outside in the east bird feeder.
A few minutes later, Randy came hurrying down the hall, muzzle loader in hand. He was wearing his plaid flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt and the slippers he wears around the house.
"I'm going to make a big bang," he said.
He crept up to the back door, yanked it open, dashed outside, raised the muzzle loader -- and Ka-pow! Suddenly there was a flash of light and a big cloud of blue smoke.
My husband waited for the smoke to clear before coming back into the house.
"Did he leave?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," Randy said.
The other night, my husband struck upon the idea of trying to scare the raccoon into thinking that our house was not a nice place to be. He loaded his muzzle loader with powder and patch (no ammunition), but the first time it only went "poof." When he came back in the house, he looked sheepish. "I didn't tamp it down well enough. Not much of a bang," he said.
The next time Randy went out, he was better prepared and had tamped the powder and patch sufficiently. By that time, the raccoon had retreated up into the big pine tree. I went out with the spotlight to see if I could spot him. And there he was -- way up in the tree. Randy took aim, and there was a ka-pow!, a flash of light and a cloud of blue smoke. The tree has enough lower branches that my husband ended up with a face-full of pine needles and bark. I don't know if it scared the raccoon. I didn't see him anymore that night.
But that wasn't the case Tuesday evening. Later on, after Randy had gone to bed, I went outside to check on the horses. And sure, enough, the raccoon was in the east bird feeder again. So I chased him away.
When I got down to the barn, Kajun was all shook up and refused to come inside for his evening treat of grain. He has never liked gunshots of any kind, and generally during gun deer season around here in November, he is in a constant state of nervous anxiety. The other night it must have taken him by surprise because he wasn't too upset then. He more than made up for it Tuesday evening.
A little while later when I had finished checking on the horses, I took Pixie outside -- and you guessed it. The raccoon was back. This time Pixie chased him out of the feeder and up a tree. She was pretty pleased with herself, too, I think.
So, all in all Tuesday evening, I chased the raccoon out of the bird feeder three times, Randy chased him out a couple of times. He got beeped at with the truck horn. Shot at with powder and patch, a big flash of light and a cloud of smoke and a ka-boom, and Pixie chased him too.
You would think he'd get the hint at some point that this is just not a quiet, restful place to be.
LeAnn R. Ralph