On the way down to the chicken house, to take my girlies some scraps, today, I startle a squirrel, which bounds into the woods, startling me, in return.
Next, a deer leaps from its hiding place near the edge of the woods and races after the squirrel, such rattling of leaves and scrambling of footsteps as I’ve not heard in a while.
As I near the hen-house, which is 2/3 wood shed, I hear more scrambling. What a menagerie around here, today! I hear it again. Hmm. This is not the usual. The hennies are making a different sound, too, one I’ve heard too many times before. They’re saying, “We don’t like the sounds and smells around here, at all.”
I stop my crunching advance and listen. Another small movement comes from under the worm table. (Yeah, worm table. Gotta post about those soon.) I toss a small rock over there to scare whatever it is.
Nothing.
I begin thinking about snakes. We’ve seen a timber rattler around here, before, and it’s been so hot and dry, and there is water inside the chicken house . . .
I realize I am not dressed for actual danger, in a summer dress and flip-flops, so I really need to size up the situation.
Inching along, I peer around a corner and gasp.
There, in the deep shadows, is the glowing-eyed face of a huge, fat raccoon.
I immediately back up, out of its sight. A cornered raccoon can be deadly, roughly as dangerous as a pit bull. Odd that it just sat there looking at me.
Not wearing decent shoes, and not having my phone with me, I know the best plan is to retreat up to the house and think. Calling my husband, I learn the raccoon probably is caught in a trap, which explains why it did not attack, flee, or even move. Then he explains to me how to unlock our rifle, volunteering to come home early and help me.
I feel I ought to be able to do this, though, and want to try. So I change into jeans and real shoes, get a drink of water for all this heat and exercise, grab the rifle, and return to the chicken house via a different way, around the shop, to approach it from behind. Several branches of briars are in my path and with my nerves about to snap, I pick my way through to where I know my moment of truth awaits me.
I peer into that dark place, again, and sure enough, the raccoon is still there. I aim and squeeze the trigger.
Nothing.
Hmm. I pull out my cell phone to ask my husband a few more questions. Aarrgh! I’ve unknowingly grabbed our son’s rifle. Of course, it is not loaded. By now my husband seems really eager to come home. But I still think I can do it and I still want to try, so, it’s back up to the house, for me, to exchange rifles and get another drink of water, and then back I go, down to the chicken house.
Since the terrain continues downhill, beyond the building, I choose a different vantage point, this time, one that puts me on a lower elevation and puts the ‘coon more at my level. I’m feeling like quite the predator, now. I aim and this time the satisfying “pop” of success makes me feel lots more intelligent.
Until I realize I’ve missed the critter entirely. Sighs.
I move closer and try again. What! Now the rifle isn’t working, again. Oh, brother!
Thinking it must have had only one bullet, I return to the house and call my husband once more, telling him I give up. He agrees to come home. I drink more water and return to putting the finishing touches on my closet project.
That was enough excitement for nothing, I think, but I do love having the experience!
And my husband says, “I never married you for a hunting buddy, anyway.”
I watched her as she sashayed down the aisle between rows of dining tables. She had just come from church, no doubt, from the appearance and timing of her family’s entrance. She couldn’t have been over five years old.
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