IN THE WILDS OF Murray (part 2)

Writing this and avoiding psychiatric intervention has been very difficult. I do believe that leaving out all of the blood, gore and Police involvement will work out better for everyone in the end.

Especially me.

The wonderfully sweet old lady next door was very kind about the missing chunk of her house. I think because she looked at the wrong side of the house but I was not going to complain.

A 45lc is a pretty big piece of lead, big enough to break three and a few more bricks clean off the corner of the house.
I had to change tactics. The shooting wasn’t going well, I sent dog out one night to chase them away, fail. They chased dog away.
Traps.
That was the ticket.
Not the in-humane break their little legs and cause them excruciating pain for hours kind, but only because I couldn’t find any of those.
I bought this thing called a "Box Trap" it’s made by a company called Havahart®
and they really kick ass.
Except for one small problem.
Raccoons won’t go into them.
I tried Cat food, caught a whole bunch of cats. Most notably Fat Jack, who decided that the trap was a good place to nap.
I tried pizza, caught the Dog.
I tried sardines, pickles, eggs, steak and chicken cooked and raw. I caught birds, dogs, cats, and the feral child that lived down by the creek.
But no coons.
Not One.
They would sit out on the fence and mock me.
One night I was resting in the hot tub. I looked up to see an entire family perched with their creepy little articulated finger things on the fence. Laughing at me. I very clearly heard one of them laugh and call me “Stew”
I threw the bromine dispenser at them. I threw snowballs, I threw my dammed swimsuit. Then they really started laughing.
The war had just got personal.
That night they got really bold, and peed on my swamp cooler.
I knew it was them because I made it outside with the flashlight just in time to see the largest coon I had ever seen, doing his business on top of my swamp cooler.
Fragrant doesn’t begin to describe the aroma.
In desperation I gave up my man-card and called for help.
(As a side note, Rule 2563 of MANLY clearly states that asking directions, admitting to being lost, liking twilight and asking for help all result in immediate suspension of your man-card)
I called the Urban wildlife agency. They refused to tell me over the phone. Told me they would send a guy right out.
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. I opened the door to an old man in stained Carhartts and those cool old school Vuarnet Glacier glasses.


He didn’t say a word. Just handed me a folded slip of paper and turned away.
Weird.
I was almost afraid to unfold it.
I did.
It had a phone number, and under the phone number, TWINKIES was written.
That night I put a Twinkie in the trap.
I caught a coon.
Huge smile!!
I did this night after night after night.
Coons can’t resist a Twinkie.
I was winning the war.
It was a little odd. Every morning I would have a coon in the trap. Some were big, some were small. All of them seemed timid until you tried to move the trap. Then they would turn into these snarling spitting howling gnashing beasts.
I would carry the trap as far away from my leg as my stumpy little arms could stretch. The boy-coons spray pee.
A lot of pee.
I would leave the trap with coon on the porch and call the number. When I next looked, I would see an empty trap. I never saw anyone come and get them. I assumed it was the old man and his minions.
Weeks went by. The population was dwindling. Instead of a coon a night, I started catching one every other night. Then once a week. Then, three weeks without a coon.
I thought I had won.
Then the Twinkies started to disappear.
I thought it was birds, I hoped it was elves.
No luck.
The Twinkies started to just vanish out of the trap. One of them, or several, was pooped on the hood of my truck. Partially digested. Twinkies actually don’t look that much different as poop. Just mushed.
I will never eat a Twinkie again. Not if I live to be a million.
Enter sweet old lady..
She lived next door. I had shot her house. She had a turtle that was 123 years old. She liked to talk.
One day, she was out front, talking to me. I was not really paying much attention until I heard the word “raccoon” peel off of her dentures. So I rewound her a little bit and got right to the root of the whole problem.
Her son, who must be some kind of wacko nut case, had raised coons for years. Bred them in a giant chicken wire hamster cage he had constructed in the backyard. Bred them for their fur. For coats.
When he found out you actually have to KILL the things to get the fur he just kept them.
As pets.
All of them. 40-50 of them at one time.
Then he moved.
But before he left, he let all of his buddies go. Just opened their giant chicken wire home up and walked away.
PETA would have been so proud.
Seriously, I can’t make this shit up.
So here I was.
In the midst of a war.
Come to find that the enemy was once an honored guest.

I didn’t feel bad about shooting her house anymore.

I won the war.

I caught three more coons.
The last one I caught was so big that the old guy and his minions had to bring out a special trap for it. We baited it with a Twinkie, and with a bit of super-secret coon cologne that the old man had in his pocket. Smelled just like cotton candy.
That last coon was so big he couldn’t even turn around in the trap.
Took two Carhartt clad minions to carry him off.
I was watching this last time, hoping I could see where they went.
The old man lowered his glacier glasses, gave me a wink.
He put the glasses back on and there was this flash of light………