Uninvited Guests

When I lived Pinckney, I had quite a few cats. I think at one point, I had six. There was no way in hell I was going to clean a litterbox for that many friggin cats, so I installed a cat door in the back door. All cats were free to come and go as they pleased. Most nights they spent outside, but Patch liked sleeping on the couch. More often than not, he could be found snuggled somewhere comfy in the house. At around 2:00 one morning, I heard a nasty racket in my living room. It was violent, loud and short. I waited a moment, and heard nothing more. When I stepped out of the bedroom into the living room, I was greeted with a puddle of pee, surrounded by wet scraggly gray hair, and topped off with a messy pile of crap. All of this was in a neat little package right square in the middle of the room. I was confused. Apparently Patch had had it out with an animal of some sort right in my living room. He was nowhere to be found. I went back to bed, and woke up to find him big as ever and happy to let me scratch his head. A couple nights later, I heard some more noise, so I got up noisily, opened my bedroom door loudly, and stomped out into the living room. I then turned the corner into the kitchen, still loudly, and saw the biggest raccoon I have ever seen jumping out my back window. He was too big to fit through the cat door. I put a screen in the window, and figured I was good to go. That weekend I had Savanna. We shared the bedroom when she stayed. That Sunday, with her sleeping soundly on her little bed at 4:30 a.m., I heard some ruckus in the kitchen. I did not want her getting up and coming out to surprise a coon, since she was just a tiny thing then, so I blocked the door, and crawled out a window. I went back in the house through the front door, and went into the kitchen again, and saw another coon running out, this time through the cat door. When I looked into my kitchen, I was horrified. The garbage was tipped over and scattered all over the floor. I had a package of a dozen plain donuts half gone. They were ripped open and scattered on the counter. A bag of doritos, a half loaf of bread, an unopened loaf of bread, and some random other stuff, all torn open and scattered to hell and back. I could not see my floor for all the garbage on it. I grabbed my pellet pistol and went outside to see if I could find the animal that had trashed my house. I found it in one of the hickory trees next to the house. It came down the tree while I was standing there, so I shot it in the head. It turned around and went back up the tree. I was not impressed one little bit. I waited a bit, and it came back down the tree, so I shot it again. Again, it went back up. I know damn well I hit it right in the head, it was no more than 5 feet from me. I waited another ten minutes or so, and it tried again. I shot it again. It went up the tree... again. This went on for quite a while, until I exhausted my CO2 cartridges. I used my last shot and thought, great, what happens now? I spotted my pitchfork leaning against the house, so I picked it up and hid around the corner of the house waiting for that masked devil to come back down the tree. Down it came, and when it was about 4 feet from the ground, I leaped from the house and swung the pitchfork as hard and fast as I could, but I was too far from the tree. It saw me coming and ran back up, pissing like it was the end of its world. This made me laugh hysterically. I'm sure I was slap happy from being up for three hours playing a chess game with a small animal. I was out of options. I had no ammo for my .22, and the only other gun I had was my 12 guage deer gun. I think that would have been major overkill, don't you? The neighbor behind me was up, as it was 7:30 by this time, so I asked him if I could borrow some .22 rounds. He said yes, and handed me a little 50 round box. All he said was "don't shoot my squirrels". No problem, I told him. I had a small raccoon problem to take care of. As it began to get lighter, I realized my small problem was anything but. There were 6 coons in my tree. I went in and got my .22, a marlin model 60 semi automatic. Great little .22. I loaded it up, took aim on a coon, and pulled the trigger. I hit nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I hadn't shot the gun in quite a while, and it had been moved multiple times. The scope either got whacked, or just gave up the ghost. I went down the street to get Jason, to see if he had a .22. He did. I asked him if he was any good with it, and he said he could do ok. I went back home, and tried a couple more times with the same result. He showed up with his, loaded it, and took aim. When he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. I laughed and said something about taking the safety off. It was. He tried again. Still nothing. This was unbelievable. Three guns and a pitchfork, and I can't kill a damn coon. At this point I had climbed onto the roof to try some more. After a couple more unsuccessful shots, I ripped the scope off and used the irons. What do you know, the first shot took a coon. I was elated! Jason finally got his working, and popped off a couple rounds, and managed to wing a raccoon. I was giggling pretty hard by now, and was having a hell of a time shooting straight. Lee, the neighbor who gave me the ammo, was sitting on his back porch watching. I took aim on another raccoon and pulled the trigger, and two friggin coons fell out of the tree. This put me over the edge, and I just started laughing. By now, a couple of the neighbor kids had heard all the shooting and had come down to see what was going on. JD saw a raccoon laying on the ground rolling around a little, so he grabbed my pitchfork and started beating on it! I absolutely lost it! I had tears in my eyes, and I looked over to see Lee laughing pretty hard, too. Here it is, 8:00 am, 80 yards south of a church on Sunday morning, people going into the church, a moving truck in the new sub across the road with people moving into their new house, and I am shooting coons out of my tree from my roof, Jason is shooting them from the ground, and JD is swinging a pitchfork, wearing a blood spattered wife beater shirt, out by the main road. Welcome to redneckville. In case you're wondering, Savanna slept through the whole ordeal.