Dogs and Cats, living together - MASS HYSTERIA!

Here is a recent picture of Bailey da Hound Dawg. For those of you who saw him when I first brought him home you will remember that he was no bigger than Petey da Wiener Dog. At that time he was two months old. He is now four months old. I suspect he will grow a bit more in the coming months.

Bailey is the same age as Jackson Danger, right at four months. But, since Bailey da Hound Dawg is a dog, there are obvious differences. Right now, Bailey is the human equivalent of two years old - and he is acting the part of a terrible toddler in his two’s.


Uncle Tom accurately predicted his destiny, saying that Bailey is certainly a "porch dawg". The back porch is Bailey's domain whenever he is not in his kennel. We do not feed Bailey on the back porch, we feed him exclusively in his kennel because we want him to consider his kennel his home. This logic has had no effect on Bailey considering the back porch his home away from home.

We do feed the cats on the back porch, putting their food on a table. Two months ago the table was tall enough to keep Bailey from raiding the cat's food. Again, that was two months ago, when Bailey was a cute little puppy. Now we have to come up with a taller table, or some other food arrangements for the cats. I suggested to Pam that one way to solve the cat feeding problem was to get rid of the cats, but she just looked at me in that same intolerant disgusted way whenever I come up with any logical suggestion.


Two months ago, we built a large dog house for Bailey and at that time it swallowed him up. Now, it looks like Bailey could swallow his house. Before this year is out, we will have to get him a larger house. He'll probably want one with jacuzzi.

We put Bailey's dog house in a 10x20 foot kennel, and that is his home after sundown and while we are away from the farmage for extended periods. He is safe there, away from potent polecats, rascally raccoons, and chupacabra attacks. The downside is that he can't really keep varmints off the property if he's in his kennel, and that is the primary reason we have him. Before we adopted Bailey, Pam and I had agreed that we wanted a large dog to stay outside to keep critters away from the garden, especially deer away from the fruit trees. Pam insisted we get a short haired dog - she didn't want a lot of shed hair to deal with. Well, Bailey meets all the primary criteria - he is a short haired dog, and he is certainly going to be a big dog. But, I'm not so sure about his potential aggressiveness to keep critters away, especially if he is always in his kennel. That is a dilemma – but after what happened to Petey earlier this year with the skunk, I most certainly don't want a repeat incident – I do not relish the thought of giving a tomato juice bath to a large dog full of youthful energy who is hyped up from being sprayed by a skunk. So, keeping him in the kennel at night would prevent most encounters with a nocturnal polecat.

But, nighttime is also when the raccoons and deer do the most damage. It's a trade off, I suppose - Bailey does most of his damage during the day, raccoons and deer mostly at night. If Bailey were allowed to roam free at night, we MAY be assured that raccoons and deer discontinue causing damage BUT would have the knowledge that Bailey would be free to do even more damage. I guess the best thing to do would be to keep him in his kennel at night. I did make the usual logical suggestion to Pam that perhaps the best way to limit the damage caused by Bailey would be to get rid of Bailey, but she just gave me the usual response (i.e. an intolerant disgusted look). The woman has no vision.


We have two outside cats, Large White Cat and Small White Cat - that's what I call them, but Pam calls the Large White Cat "Abby" and the Small White Cat "Minnie". Like "Minnie Me".

Abby followed us home one day along with another white cat who was apparently her brother. The stupid things wouldn't leave us alone and followed us right to the gate of the property. I suspected Pam was dropping small treats from her pockets to entice them, but I could never prove it. Pam wanted to keep them and had named them even before we entered the gate - "Able" and "Baker". I'm glad there weren't three or four, we would have had "Charlie" and "Delta" as well. Regardless, I reluctantly agreed to take the stupid cats in because I rationalized that I did need a barn cat to keep the rodents under control. Nobody warned me that I would also need a small dog in the barn to keep the cats under control. The silly things kept throwing parties in the barn inviting other stray cats over for some catnip and cream. Occasionally, I'd walk in on some of these parties and see about three or four other cats bolt out the cat door dropping their drinks as they scurried off. And I swear I saw an entire litter of mice whooping it up with the cats. So much for rodent control.

Once, while I was working in the barn, something flew passed my head and Abby rushed by me in chase. Turns out it was a wren, a poor defenseless little bird. Abby cornered it under the lathe, kicking up a great deal of dust. Ordinarily I wouldn't really have minded much, but at the time I was in the process of putting a nice finish on a pair of tables I was building and I didn't really want any dust in the air. So, I chastised the cat, who flipped me the bird (literally) and I carried the bird outside and released it into the wild, which is what I call the west side of the barn.

Abby's brother, Baker, eventually got sick. Pam took it to the vet -- she TOOK - A - STRAY - CAT - TO - THE - VET -- and it was diagnosed with some fatal virus that only infects white male stray cats (apparently). Yes, I said "fatal" - the cat died a few days later, AT THE VET WHILE IN HOSPICE CARE. I got the vet bill a few days later and almost wanted to put Pam in hospice care.

Minnie is one of the kittens of Abby. Apparently, some of those wild barn parties with the other cats got out of hand (if you know what I mean) because Abby had three kittens. After they were about three months old, though, two of them disappeared and never returned. Pam has hopes that they were picked up by a benevolent philanthropist who is now lavishing luxury upon the dear little things in some mansion somewhere in the northwest side of the city, feeding them roast duck and Fancy Feast all day. I rather doubt that is what happened to them, but I don't want to burst Pam's bubble of joy-thoughts with the pin-prick of reality, so I play along and assure her that the cats are in the feline equivalent of heaven on earth (fat chance).

Abby is not too crazy about Bailey da Hound Dawg, but Minnie absolutely loves him. They play in the yard together and are always together following Pam and me when we take walks around the property. In fact, all the dogs and cats will follow us on our walks. I'm glad we live out away from nosey neighbors who can't readily observe the menagerie: a wiener dog, a hound dawg, two white cats, and occasionally a brain-damaged Siamese bounding around a middle-aged couple waddling through a field, one wearing lady-bug boots and the other a droopy hat (feel free to imagine who is wearing what).


As most of you know, Petey da Wiener Dog went lame soon after we moved to Newalla. Although he still has considerable trouble getting around, he recovered some use of his hind legs and can move about over level terrain. Good thing, too, because if he generates many more vet bills I’m going to have him stuffed and make a door stop out of him. But, Pam hates it when I say stuff like that - she loves that little rat dog more than she loves me, and that's no joke.

Petey da Wiener Dog and Satchmo the Brain Damaged Cat have always had a weird relationship. When they were younger, they would play together, sleep together, and generally cause plenty of household problems and vet bills. I think there was some sort of inter-species gay relationship going on, but I never saw anything beyond mutual butt sniffing from the two, so I wasn't concerned. Now that they are both up in years, things have quieted down between the two boys. Petey, being partially lame, and Satchmo, ever so overweight, are now in their respective middle-ages and are acting more like sedate grumpy old men (I should know). Mostly they just eat and sleep and poop - kinda like me and little Jackson Danger right now.

Satchmo H-A-T-E-S Bailey da Hound Dawg and lets everyone within earshot know it whenever Bailey comes around. Bailey, on the other hand, seems to not have a hateful bone in his rather large body. To Bailey, everybody is his friend, whether they want to be or not. He just can't take a hint that his presence is sometimes not wanted. Heck, he can't take a direct statement to that effect. Don't get me wrong, he is a very smart dog, he is just still quite young and playful. Pam and I sometimes forget his age because of his size, so we're trying to modify our own thinking about training.

Like I said, Bailey really is intelligent, for a dog. He has already learned some basic commands, like "sit", "stay", "fetch". Of course, he doesn't "sit" for very long, and he can't "stay" in one place for more than a few seconds, and he will "fetch" only what he wants when he wants, but I see progress being made. He can get the morning paper for us, but I do have to walk down Danger Lane to open the gate for him. My future plans are to install an intercom in Bailey's dog house, and a remote kennel gate opener and another remote for the main gate so that I will be able to open both the kennel and the main gate and have Bailey fetch the paper for us while we are still in bed. We could also put the coffee maker on the back porch and teach him to make our morning coffee for us. I've often wondered why it wouldn't be possible to teach the dog to feed himself and the cats. Lord knows he already knows where the cat food is. And dogs like to eat, don't they, so I don’t see any reason why Bailey couldn't be taught to feed himself. Seems that the difficult part would be to teach him portion control, but that shouldn't be too hard. As smart as Bailey is I'll bet we will soon have him doing all sorts of chores for us.

I mentioned that Pam and I are trying to modify our own thinking about Bailey's training. Pam has been watching the "Dog Whisperer" to get some ideas. And to her credit she has been taking much of what she has learned and applying it to a daily routine. When she goes outside, she takes a pocket full of dog treats with her and attempts to teach Bailey not to jump on her and rip her throat out. She wants so much for Bailey to be conscientious and courteous and to give other living creatures "their space", as the Dog Whisperer puts it. But, if "space" was chewable, Bailey would have ripped it to shreds by now. That dog has torn up virtually every indestructible object we have on the property, including the air conditioner - yes, Bailey chewed the wiring running to the air conditioner and we had to call a technician to repair it.

So far, the only real lesson Bailey has learned is that he can get a dozen treats from Pam just by pretending to be a good dog for a few minutes. Once the treats are gone it’s back to muddy paws on the shirts and throats being ripped.

Bailey has not yet learned the bad habit of chasing cars, and I hope he never does. I'm certain he would catch one and take it to the north acre and chew it into scrap metal, sticking me with a huge damage suit and a possible manslaughter charge.

Whenever Pam and I begin thinking about getting cows or goats or sheep, we go outside and try to have a nice quiet chat about it. Invariably, after fighting off cats and dogs longing for attention, we thankfully come to the logical and sane conclusion that we already have more animals than we want or need.

Everyone should do what they're good at, and we are perfectly content being the best cat herders and dog feeders in Newalla.

Passing the Torch

I have been having trouble with the weed wacking portion of my grass cutting routine. Every time I use the gas weed trimmer to cut back the grass and weeds near the fence lines, I end up having to replace the line every few feet because the fence tears up the line way too much. I thought about using weed killer along the fences, but even though I am anti-environmentalist (I am a conservationist), I could not bring my self to spray herbicide along a quarter mile of fence every six months.

Then one evening, Pam and I were watching our new favorite show on the Rural Channel, "The Country Farm Life", and I saw a farm woman using a torch to burn weeds along a fence line. Immediately I knew that this was what we needed. And Pam agreed. So, during our next trip to the local farm and feed and hardware store (we go about once a week for "date night") I bought the biggest propane torch in stock.

As Paris Hilton would say, "It's hot." Now, in place of the weed wacker and changing line every few feet, I can easily burn the weeds along the bottom of the fences with a simple swipe of a portable propane torch. The only thing I have to watch for is creating a wildfire that would engulf the neighborhood, but besides that small inconvenience what can go wrong?

When I first got the thing, I noticed that the instructions were not complete and had to do some research on the internet on just how to hook it up. (Note: When anyone says the instructions "were not complete", they really mean that their ignorance prevents them from understanding the instructions. I freely admit that was my case here - I just didn't know what I didn't know.)

Through internet research, I decreased my level of ignorance about propane blow torches. I found out that there are two types of propane tank connectors, the POL (named after the company that invented the connector, now no longer accepted as completely safe), and the Type I ACME fitting used on most if not all current propane bar-b-que grills. The torch I bought did not come with either the Type I fitting or the POL fitting, but had other fittings that I did not have a clue how to hook up. I thought I needed a high-flow Type I ACME fitting to hook the thing up to my current propane tanks. So, I researched the internet, which is chock full of information - except the information needed to hook up this particular torch.

From what I found, it seems that everyone knows by instinct how this thing gets connected using just the materials packaged with the torch. I must have some sort of genetic flaw, because I sure couldn't figure it out. So, I began contacting some local propane stores, explaining just precisely what I needed. And they all seemed to know just how to hook up anything to any propane tank, but they all seemed confused by my explanation and request.

Finally, Pam took me to a local propane dealer (she took me because she happened to be driving at the time, not because of any lack of male superiority I may or may not have . . . so there). At the time of our visit, the dealership was staffed by two female clerical type persons, not technicians who could answer my extremely technical question. And in fact, neither person appeared to have a clue as to what I was talking about. After I patronizingly dismissed them, Pam asked them about a totally unrelated topic of the possible cost and equipment needed to install a propane tank for our house if we wanted to convert our hated electric stove to a much more appreciated propane stove. While Pam and the clerical type person were engaged in this conversation, I meandered around the store and happened to see the exact same torch I purchased a few days ago, and thought to myself that if they sell the thing here they may actually know how to hook it up and were merely playing games with me earlier. I patiently waited for Pam and the clerk to finish their conversation (you family members know what I mean by "patiently" under these circumstances). Holding up the packaged torch, I informed the clerical type person that this was the very product I was attempting to connect to my current propane tank. She informed me in turn that that particular item had been hanging in the exact same place for over three years and that she didn't know a thing about them, except that "this thingy here" (she pointed at a connector within the package) looks like it should fit on "this tank here" (she again pointed at a display tank that looked exactly like the one I have at home). Trying to be as condescending (I mean, "patient") as possible, I pointed out that the outer threads of the tank's connector required a Type I fitting, which was not included in the torch packaging, and which I was attempting to obtain. She shook her head slightly and (again) pointed at the tank, and explained (again) that the fitting included with the torch should fit these threads "right here" (she pointed emphatically). Upon closer inspection, I realized that there were in fact internal threads as well as outer threads on the fitting normally installed on the propane tank, and that I had the proper fitting all the time.

Now, I'll be the first to admit (to myself) that I never before noticed that a conventional propane tank has both external threads to fit a Type I ACME fitting as well as internal left-hand threads to accommodate a POL-type fitting. So, I pretended to ignore the apparent smug look on the face of the female clerical type person, politely expressed my thanks and gallantly escorted my bride from the premises.

On the way home, Pam verbally reviewed what the female clerical type person said about cost and equipment needed to convert to a propane gas stove, and I pretended to listen - I was thinking about how easy it would be to connect my torch to my propane tank and couldn't wait to fire that puppy up.

As soon as I got home, I bee-lined it to the workshop to connect the torch to the propane tank and immediately dragged the tank and the torch to the garden area to try it out on the fence line weeds.

Now, if you've never used on of these things before, be advised that this torch is designed to flow 500,000 btus and can produce temperatures in excess of 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. It is a tool and not a toy, but it happens to be one of those tools that would provide certain people with a great deal of fun, especially those with a bent toward arson. So, keeping in mind the inherent hazards associated with any tool, here are some important safety tips gleaned from practical experiences with said torch:

- Do not use this torch if you are a certified pyromaniac. An uncertified pyromaniac can use this torch if supervised by a paranoid pyrophobic. Normal mentally stable people should at least know the location of the nearest fire extinguisher.

- Do not look down the business end of the torch when lighting the thing. Think of looking down the muzzle of a loaded gun with your finger on the trigger. Same thing.

- Do not use a match to ignite the torch. Think of what it would be like to hold a match while using the match to light a small amount of gasoline that is in the bottom of a barrel. Same thing.

- Do not use a butane lighter to ignite the torch. Think of a cherry bomb going off in your hand. Same thing.

- Do not fully open the flow valve before lighting. Open it ever so slightly before striking a flint. Lighting the torch with the flow valve fully open will produce a loud explosive roar similar to the noise of a jet engine in afterburner. If unduly startled by this sudden noise, you may scream and drop the torch. Dropping the lit torch could cause a wildfire; screaming like a girl would make your wife snicker.

- Do not try to dry your boots with the lit torch.

- Do not use the lit torch to evaporate moisture from the top of your propane tank.

- Do not use the lit torch near a clothes line when clothes are hanging out to dry, or your wife will surely hang you out to dry.

- Do not tease the dog with the lit torch.

- Even if you hate cats, do not attempt to set the cats on fire with the lit torch. You will succeed, with unintended consequences.

- Use the lit torch to exterminate weeds along a fence line or an open garden area. Do not attempt to kill weeds along the foundation of a house, gazebo, barn, workshop, well-house or shed as there is abundant evidence that these structures are flammable.

- Do not use the torch along the edge of a vinyl fence, plastic pipe, rubber hose, or anything you do not want to repair or replace afterwards. This includes air conditioning units (soldered joints melt at about 400 degrees F, and what did I say about the temperature output of this thing?).

- After using the torch to kill weeds on your driveway, allow the flames to subside a bit before re-parking your automobile on the driveway.

- The torch, being extremely hot, has the potential to make other things extremely hot. Do not heat a rock with the torch and then expect it to be immediately cool enough to grasp barehanded to lob at the cats.

- Use caution when using torch near metal tools, such as shovels.

- If curiosity exceeds caution and you desire to see if the torch will make a shovel red hot, be assured that it will. The red glow indicates heat transfer from the torch to the shovel, making the shovel too hot to grasp until normal heat dissipation has occurred quite a few minutes later.

- Do not heat a shovel as a practical joke knowing your wife will be using said shovel prior to equalization with the ambient temperature. Unintended consequences will occur.

- Do not attempt to shoo away flying insects from around your head or your wife’s head with the lit torch.

- Do not use the lit torch when operating a lawn tractor, automobile, or other conveyance while texting and drinking soda and fiddling with the radio knob. No matter how well you "multi-task", you will experience unintended consequences.

- Do not use the lit torch while sober indoors, or while inebriated indoors or out. (See rule number 1).

- Do not attempt to pee in the compost while holding the lit torch. (You have been warned).

Well, after learning most of these rules through the compulsory courses of trail and error provided by the school of hard knocks, and after four unannounced visits from the fine men and women of Oklahoma City Fire Station No. 36 (God bless 'em), I can honestly say that this little tool will help alleviate one of the more arduous chores I have been plagued with since moving in.

So, in closing, let it be said that fire can be a very effective tool in the hands of the competent user. Fire has enabled mankind to become civilized and to create culinary delicacies such as roast pig and bar-b-que. Fire has provided light in the hours of darkness, heat in the midst of snow covered environs, inspiration for poets, and ambiance for lovers. Fire has provided the energy for all the manufacturing processes mankind has ever produced. Without fire, modern transportation would be at a standstill, modern houses would not be homes, and modern woodworkers would have no way of getting rid of all the scrap material left over after turning expensive wood into sawdust. And now, thanks to this fabulous torch, fire takes the tedium out of weed control, injecting a bit of zest and thrill to an otherwise boring task.

How great is that?

Don't know the difference between Mr. Bean and a legume in the ground

Pam and I wanted to start a bean garden, so we did what any self-respecting couple would do in this day and age, we researched the internet to find out all about beans. For those of you who haven't tried it yet, the internet is chock full of good information. You should try it sometime.

Anyway, we did a little research on the internet looking for information about legumes and ended up finding a web site for some company in Maine called ‘LiL’ Bean (or something like that, I forget). The web site had a lot of nice expensive gardening clothes, but we couldn't find any information about legumes. So Pam called their 1-800 number and the guy on the other end of the phone listened politely for a few minutes while she explained what we were looking for. He then asked for our address - he said he would send us a catalog. I guessed even though the internet is chock full of information it must not be all that chock full if they have to send us a catalog. But, I figured it would come in handy when we were planning our garden, so we gave him our mailing address.

When we got the catalog, I knew right away there was some mistake and said to Pam, “This ain’t got beans.”

I explained there was nothing in the catalog about gardening - it didn't even have a garden tools section, and nothing about legumes or any seed plants whatsoever. So, Pam did what every woman would do when faced with this situation: she grabbed the catalog and immediately filled out an order for two pairs of pants, a jacket, three shirts, two pairs of gloves, and a woolen scarf.

Meanwhile, I turned back to the internet for more research.

I did find out the peanut is a legume. You would think that some botanist somewhere would suggest changing the name. It sure would be awfully confusing for people who don't know how to use the internet to see the word "peanut" and then not know the plant is a legume. I guess the prefix "pea" might give it away, but the suffix "nut" puts you right back in Confusion Class wearing a silly pointed hat.

We grew some peanuts in our garden last year, just as an experiment, just to see if they'd grow - and by gum they did. We should have let them stay in the ground a bit longer, but they tasted pretty much like peanuts, except they weren't salty. I guess to grow salted peanuts you have to add salt to the ground when you plant the things. But, the peanut web site said that some peanuts apparently are “with sea salt”. There's no way we could grow peanuts “with sea salt” - we're in the middle of Oklahoma, for pete's sake, not any where near the sea.

We tried to grow some peas this year. Pam set up some wire in a frame that looked like a short mountain. I asked her what that was for, and she replied - and I'm quoting- "for the pea thingys to climb up" - that's what she said. I still don't understand that concept - made me think of little pea plants wearing little rock climbing shoes and using rope and carabiners and yodeling when they get to the top of the little fake mountain frame. We did get some peas, but it looked to me that the ragweed beat the little guys to the top of the mountain and threw most of them over a cliff.

Pam did the same thing with the cucumbers this year, except the wire frame looked more like a sheer rock face, and the cucumbers seemed to be much more out of shape than the peas. If the peas were slim trim Swiss mountain folk, then the cucumbers were rotund middle-aged American has-been rock climbers more interested in drinking beer while looking up the rock face and saying, "Yep, looks steep."

But, I digress – cucumbers are not legumes, they’re in the gourd family (I think the ones we grew were disowned by their family – but I still digress).

Pam wanted to grow some green beans, but that didn’t work out too well this year. Last year, she put in some bush beans, and we got quite a few, enough to last through the winter. This year, though, she decided to experiment and put in a different variety. She seemed to be on this trellis kick for some reason and put up another wire frame for these beans to climb up. Apparently, they came ill-equipped for climbing and got discouraged and just decided to hike around a bit before littering up the garden. So, to summarize the results of Pam’s experiment, “bush beans are easy to plant, they grow well, they’re easy to pick, and they’re tasty, so remember what succeeds and darn well don’t let that happen again.” If Pam had been Edison, she would have chucked the first successful light bulb into the trash bin to start work on an improved lantern wick.

But, I again digress – where was I?

Legumes, that’s where I was. And we didn’t get any this year, that’s where I was going.

But at least we learned all about legumes. Legumes have been a staple of the human diet since pre-history. They’re hardy, easy to grow and very versatile and nutritious.

If you can’t grow legumes, you can’t grow beans.

Visitations

Soon after moving to our house in Newalla, we began having some wildlife visitations. We never saw any animals, but most mornings we could tell that something had been rummaging around, mostly getting into the cat’s food and water. Things would be scattered around and broken, and I even wondered if something was trying to cook a bird on the grill at times. Pam stopped leaving cat food overnight on the back porch. The cats complained, but Pam explained the situation to them and they seemed to have accepted that.

Petey da Wiener Dog cornered a possum once, and lame as he is, he latched on to it and howled and barked and carried on to such a point that Pam went into a panic about Petey’s safety. She hurried to where Petey and the possum were, yelling hysterically for me to help Petey, but when I arrived I saw that it looked as if the possum needed help instead of Petey. The poor little possum was doing what possums do when attacked, that is, playing possum, but Petey was continually lunging to bite the thing. Pam finally scooped Petey up and babied the little dog, while Petey kept growling and baring his teeth and made every effort to get out of Pam’s grasp so he could finish the job.

A couple minutes after Pam “rescued” Petey, the possum got on his feet and lumbered off as if nothing had happened.

A few weeks after that, Petey woke us up at two in the morning. I climbed down the stairs and saw Petey barking at the back door and making as if he wanted to go out and make war. I thought it was just the possum again, and almost opened the door for Petey just to see what would happen. I peeked out the door, and saw a shadow in the dark moving near the rocking chairs. Hoping to surprise whatever was there, I flipped on the light, and saw a black and white kittie-cat-looking thing, and thought better about letting Petey go outside. Petey and I let the skunk do whatever it wanted to do on the back porch, and eventually it wandered to the side of the house and into the front yard, with Petey following his every move from inside the house until it disappeared to the south.

Petey wasn’t so lucky about a month later. I was working in Danger Lane Workshop one evening, and Pam came out to see me, carrying Petey (Pam does that sometimes – she can’t resist me). While we were in the workshop, Petey got a bit agitated, like he wanted to go outside, so Pam absent-mindedly opened the door and let him out and she and I continued our conversation.

The next minute we heard Petey barking and howling, and the next moment we smelled the same smell you would smell when you drive over a polecat road kill (skunk for you suburbanites). Pam looked at me, and I looked at Pam, and we both knew in an instant what had just occurred. We rushed to the door.

Now, the workshop used to be a barn. And a barn being a barn naturally attracts various types of animals. I knew full well that animals were used to going in and around the barn and would continue doing so even after the barn became a workshop. And I did see a skunk wandering around the barn a couple of times after we moved in, but I didn’t really think too much about it.

But, now, the reality of skunk habitation sunk in, along with that distinctive overpowering smell. When Pam and I got outside, Pam immediately called for Petey, but Petey was in no shape to respond. He was writhing on the ground, rubbing his poor little eyes with his paws, then writhing and rolling on the ground again. Pam rushed to him and got about five feet from him – that’s when the full force of the smell hit her nostrils, and she stopped like she had been hit with a brick (not that I would know, I’ve never hit her with a brick before). At this time, the skunk came from around the other side of the workshop and scampered away into the darkness while we were left to tend to Petey.

Petey submitted to a tomato juice bath, a peroxide dousing, and an industrial strength detergent scrub, but the peculiar smell stayed on him for weeks.

We know now that Petey cannot go out by himself after dark. And Bailey da Hound Dog gets put in his kennel when it gets dark.

And we always turn the porch light on before we go out after dark ourselves. I’m not so worried about things that bite as I am cautious about things that could make me an unpleasant subject of conversation at work the next day.

A few nights ago, while ruminating on the events of the day, we heard a racket on the back porch. Petey the Wiener Dog rushed to the back door and began growling and barking. Sachmo, the Brain-damaged Cat, joined him and also began growling in that weird way cats do sometimes.

Well, I just had to see what the boys were concerned about, so I turned on the light to the back porch and looked out the door window.

There, rummaging around, were no less than four raccoons. I half expected to see them make themselves at home in the rockers, stoke up the grill and bar-b-q some chicken.

I ran to get the camera and captured this Pulitzer Prize quality snapshot.


Cute little things, aren’t they – the chicken-stealing, cat-molesting, garbage-can-tipping vermin. They didn’t run off when I was taking pictures, quite the opposite. As I snapped away, they were approaching me enmass and trying to out-flank me. I didn’t know what they would have done if they had caught me, but I got the distinct impression they wanted my camera. This was confirmed a few days later when I found a note on the porch, in recognizable raccoon script, offering a substantial payment in exchange for some digital copies of the pictures I took.

So, that night, I burned a CD with the pictures on it and set it on the porch along with a note of agreement about the price. The next morning it was gone.

That was a week ago, and I’m still waiting for the “substantial payment”.
Raccoons may be cute, but they have no integrity.

Transplanted hillbilly

In the hierarchy of the evolutionary progress of homo sapiens sapiens, the bottom of the pile are called “hillbillies”, of which I am a proud member.

We're all proud. To illustrate, there were some members of my family who were part of the coalition to ban a certain Hollywood TV show from airing in our neck of the woods back in Missouri. To us, there was nothing more insulting to our intelligence than the depiction of a "cement pond" in the back yard. Such nonsense. It couldn't have been a real pond because it never had a healthy layer of pond scum floating on top. “Californy is the place you oughta be, if you wanna shake and rattle till you fall into the sea, but it ain't for any blue-blooded SEMO hillbilly”.

As I was saying, I married "up". I, a natural born hillbilly, married the most wonderful white trash girl who ever lived. And together we have progressed up the social ladder. After a 20 year stint in the USAF, my bride and I have settled down in the great state of Oklahoma. And we can now say that we are no longer hillbilly by birth, we are no longer white trash by marriage. We have moved up in the ranks and are now officially Red Necks by location.

Now, many people in other parts of the U.S.A don't know what to think about Oklahoma red necks. Some think that everybody here still roams the plains on horseback shooting each other with Winchesters and bows and arrows. Others have only seen Oklahoma from 35,000 feet and call it "desolate". Give me a break - any place looks desolate from 35,000 feet. I’ve been in some areas of St. Louis that look pretty desolate from 10 feet, I hope tell ya.

Some folks have called Oklahoma City a "cow town". But, Oklahoma City is much more than a "cow town" - lots of folks in the city keep horses, too. And chickens. And pigs. And goats. We are what you might call "diversified".

Now, I'll admit, Oklahoma isn't much for scenery. It does have its beauty spots, but they are kind of few and far between. And you do have to drive a bit out of state to get to any really nice scenery - except north to Kansas (everybody knows that).

But, Oklahoma has its own style of scenery that can only be appreciated by those who wish to appreciate it. From my experiences, I've come to realize that anyone can find fault with any place they've been. Ask any member of my family and they'll agree that I can find fault with pretty much everything, so I know what I’m talking about. You have to make the best of where you're at, whether you like it or not. I'm not talking about merely pretending to like a place, I'm saying you have to accept the place for what it is. And in order to do this, you have to be able to lie. Most of us lie about where we live - we know it's a dump or worse, but we're willing to fight anyone else who calls it a dump because we just don’t want to admit that we're too lazy to move.

We all lie about the state we live in. The only exception to this rule is Texans - Texans don't lie about Texas. They actually BELIEVE it's heaven on earth. To Texans, some sort of weird religion has in their minds transformed the dried out prairie dog infested Palo Duro canyon into the Hanging Gardens of Babylon complete with water nymphs and garden elves.

Now, I like living in Oklahoma. I don't want to go into all the reasons why, and I really don’t want to go into the numerous and widely varied reasons why I don’t like it, either. I’ll just say that I’ve lived, worked, and otherwise traveled in every state but six, as well as quite a few foreign countries, and I can honestly say that this is the first place I’ve lived where I’ve become too lazy to move.

Seriously, I do like it here - and I am too lazy to move.

In closing, I would like to submit for your pleasure my version of the state theme song, OKLAHOMA, from Rodgers and Hammerstein's great musical of the same name (you have to fill in the tune, but here are the words):

"Ooooooooo-k-lahoma, where the hot wind withers up the plains.
And the waving wheat succumbs to heat, or is drowned in water from the rains.
Ooooooooo-k-lahoma, where my wife can't cook a decent pie (as if she ever),
Where we sit and stare, and wipe our hair after hawks poop droppings from the sky.
We know we're in debt for the land, and the land we're in debt for is bland,
So when we saaaaaay, "HEY, GET OFFA MY PLACE, HEY",
We're only saying "You're kinda fine Oklahooooma,
Oklahomaaaa. . . could be worse."

(With apologies to Oscar Hammerstein II - And to any state legislator who may somehow get hold of this tripe, I submit the following legal appeal: "Please don't sue me, or raise my taxes again.")

OK, it ain't the motto no mo

Have you ever thought about the initials of the states and what they could stand for in a metaphorical sense? My home state of Missouri, for example, "MO". Sounds like the name of a tough guy - Big Mo from the "show me" state - "show me Mo".

Or Maine, "ME" - kinda self-centered, don't you think?

Or California, "CA" - the sound a kid makes when something distastful is slapped on his dinner plate (considering many of the politics that come out of California this might be appropriate).

Then there's Alaska, "AK", which ominously reminds me of a Soviet-era firearm (something that makes California liberals say "CA").

How about North Dakota, "ND", not to be confused with the great state of "Indie" or Indiana, which is "IN", as in "no room in the . . .". If you go "IN" you eventually want to come "OUT", or so I've been told.

Then there's Wyoming, "WY" - well, WY not? And the healthiest of us always get "IL" in Illinois. And I'm not going to say what kind of jelly the abbreviation for Kentucky always remind me of.

But, there really is only one state that is "OK". It may not be the best, it may not be the state that "MA" and "PA" would like, and it may not be the state that is always greeting you with a hearty "HI", but it's certainly not "MT" of any greatness nor full of folks with "NV". It's just "OK" - could be better, but could be worse.

(Apologies to Oklahoma Tourism and Recreation Department: It's no longer OK to say, "Oklahoma is OK". It is now OK to say "Oklahoma, Native America". Okay, OK?)

business trip, 2001

Today marks the eighth anniversary of the atrocity of September 11, 2001, in which over 3000 defenseless women, innocent children, and unarmed men were, without warning, indiscriminately and mercilessly killed as an act of war by a group representing a movement led by people who had never been harmed by the people they murdered.

That's a fairly long sentence, but it sums up the basic facts about Patriot Day.

On this day in September, 2001, I was on a business trip, flying to Georgia to conduct some work. The plane had a scheduled stop in Dallas, TX, for passengers such as myself to change planes. Upon landing, the passengers were informed about the events in New York and told that flights out were delayed. As the morning wore on, all flights, as you know, were cancelled.

Passing by a television, I saw on the screen the second plane going into the second tower, and I knew that this was no accident and that the nation was under attack.

It was a remarkable scene there in Dallas International once 10,000 people realized they were now stranded. But, because of the immense impact the atrocity had on people, everyone in the airport acted calmly, rationally, and without rancor, except toward the bastards who brought war to the nation.

Obviously, my business trip was cancelled for the time being, and I had to make arrangements to get home. Compared to most others there in the airport, I was lucky in that Oklahoma City was just a few hours north on I-35, and if all else failed Pam could come and get me - we would just have had to make a long round-trip of it since by the time the news broke all hotel rooms were filling up very quickly.

I knew by instinct that the availability of rental cars would be quickly exhausted, but began to make my way to the car rental area anyway. On the way there, I met a man and overheard him speaking on his cell phone that he was making his way out, that he had secured a car, and would be in Kansas City sometime that night. Once he got off the phone, I approached him and told him I had overheard and asked if I could share a ride. He heartily agreed, and I introduced myself, "I'm Rick Scott." He appeared slightly startled, and introduced himself as "Hello, I'm Scott Ricks" and gave me a business card. And I was startled as well.

At the rental car counters, there was an immense line of people, and obviously there would not be enough cars for all of them. But, everyone stood politely, calmly, but they all had looks of grave resolve, as I must have had. As folks left the rental car counters with an available car, they each, without fail, announced into the crowd their destination and asked if anyone needed a ride.

When Scott got his car, he did the same and we picked up a passenger needing to get to Kansas City. I don't recall the name of the other passenger, but he later identified himself as one who had worked as a building engineer, one of his previous jobs being to help build the World Trade Center in New York.

It was an interesting trip north on I-35. Every main artery was clogged with vehicles - apparently, the local and federal authorities, concerned about security in various parts of the city, had blocked certain streets and highways. But, eventually, we were cleared of the city and on the open road. The third passenger, the building engineer, did not seem confident that the World Trade buildings would survive the fires, and that if people did not evacuate quickly there could be upward to 10,000 deaths as a result of the collapse of the buildings. When we got closer to Oklahoma City, the news became clearer about the cause, the effect, and the extent of the damage in New York. And this was the first time we heard about the Pentagon and Pennsylvania.

Outside the house in Moore, OK, I said goodbye to my traveling companions and wished them well. There wasn't much more to say, but the three of us, having shared the past few hours of our lives together, gave each a look that indicated there was little we had to say, we were all thinking pretty much the same thing, that is to get to our loved ones and begin work.

On the farmage this morning, Pam and I spent time watching some news about the day, taking care of the morning chores, drinking our coffee as usual. But, the feeling we have is the same feelings have every time this year, remembrance of an atrocity that should never be forgotten.

Newalla, almost in the country, always in the city

Technically, Newalla, OK, is within the city limits of Oklahoma City.

If you look at a map of Oklahoma City, you will notice a "finger" stretching into the southeast and touching the Pottawatomie county line. This far southeastern hinterlands of Oklahoma City is Newalla. We heard how this area became part of Oklahoma City from a local resident of Newalla, who claims to have been born here and to have lived here all his life (I use the word "claimed" because, after seeing this town, I find it difficult to believe that anyone would admit to such a thing). The story goes that there was some noise coming out of the Oklahoma City city council to expand toward the east and swallow up the rural residency, including the unincorporated towns of Choctaw and Harrah. After hearing this, the citizens of Newalla, all 34 of them, gathered for an emergency session to plan for a fight against this tyrannical takeover by "big city government". But, that very night, word got back to Oklahoma City city council members and they called an emergency session of their own and annexed the township of Newalla on the spot.

At least, that's the semi-official version of the story. The following is a compilation of some additional facts I made up - I mean, I dug up.

The real story has to do with power and corruption, just like most stories involving politics.

But first, some historical context: There was an incident that took place right after statehood that resulted in a not-so-friendly feud between two cities of the new state. In the beginning, the city of Guthrie was the original state capitol. But, one night, a group of citizens from Oklahoma City raided the Guthrie city hall and absconded with the state seal, took it to Oklahoma City and made an announcement that Oklahoma City is now the state capitol.

Now, when I first heard this, it seemed to me that a mere criminal act would not be the determining factor as to which city was the state capitol. But, in the minds of Oklahomans this logic makes perfect sense, for apparently very few people across the state complained about it. Even the Guthrie citizenry didn't seem to want to do much about it. A prominent Guthrian at the time was quoted in an interview: "Well, OK, if they got the seal then I guess it's OK for them to be the state capitol, but, goshdurnit, we still got all these state records on file here and, dagumit, I reckon we gotta fedex 'em to Oklahoma City or they'll be hell to pay, dagnabit."

Jump ahead in time a few decades and we come to the REAL reason why Newalla was annexed. I may have my facts mixed up a bit, but it seems Oklahoma City annexed Newalla simply to preserve the status of the city as the state capitol. Apparently, the Newalla city council's true motives for fighting against annexation had to do with a secret plan to sneak into the state capitol and bring the state seal back to Newalla and proclaim Newalla as the new state capitol.

Hey, if it worked once, it should work again, right?

Little did the council realize, however, unnoticed in the back of the room sat a representative of Oklahoma City, who brought back the disturbing news of the attempted coup. That night in emergency session, the Oklahoma City city council voted unanimously to annex the township of Newalla into their fond embrace.

It's politically difficult to proclaim your city as the new state capitol when your city already is the state capitol, so once the annexation took place the citizens of Newalla didn't have a prosthetic limb to balance thereupon. The citizens of Newalla fussed and fumed, but in the end, like the citizens of Guthrie a hundred years ago, resigned quickly to their defeat. Said one prominent citizen, "Well, OK, if they want to keep the dadblamed seal in Oklahoma City - I mean in town - I mean in the city of which we are now a part - then I guess we ain't got a leg to stand on, wooden or otherwise. Besides, we'd just have to store all those state records after they fedex'ed 'em to us anyway, goshdurnit."

Historical evidence abounds that the annexation of Newalla was motivated by something far more nefarious than mere desire to expand the city's boundaries, but at least the story doesn't contain any mention of a sex/drug scandal (there are a couple of pharmacies nearby, but I’m hard pressed to find any evidence of sex in this town, scandalous or otherwise). Newalla still retains its Post Office and the local addresses still reflect a zip code unique for "Newalla, OK". The city of Oklahoma City does provide trash pickup services, but has displayed no intention of servicing the Newalla area with city water and city sewage or other services like street repair and sidewalks. Most commercial companies, like phone service, electrical service, and cable TV services, available in Oklahoma City proper have no intention of hawking their wares in Newalla - as one service representative (who was evidently being recorded for training purposes) tactfully told me, "We'll be in Newalla when Newalla is as big as Edmond" - i.e. about 70,000 population. So, considering our present rate of growth, cable TV will be with the colonists on Mars before I can send my poop through city sewer lines. My property taxes go to Harrah Schools, which hasn't been annexed into Oklahoma City because the citizenry there have expressed their intent to defend against such a move as if it was an armed invasion. Newalla is still pretty much a rural area and I do believe that most Oklahoma City council members don't know that Newalla township is older even than Oklahoma City.

These are just a few things that indicate the city of Oklahoma City has no real interest in making Newalla a real part of the city culture.

But, from my point of view, it doesn't really matter if Newalla is incorporated or unincorporated. I like the trash pickup service provided by Oklahoma City, and I don't mind not having city water or city sewage. I grew up in southeast Missouri on a place that used well water and had a septic system, so it's no big deal for me to relive that experience. What I don't like is the idea of having to get a permit for anything I may want to do on my own property. And this makes me, as a law abiding citizen, feel somewhat guilty if I pee in my own compost heap. On the other hand, Pam doesn't appreciate me peeing in the compost heap so she is all in favor of the City telling me I can't do that. And she still can't get her head wrapped around the concept that we are literally expelling our sewage into an underground tank just outside the back door. To her, that's worse than Bailey da Hound Dog dumping his load in the open field. And don’t get me started about what it took to convince her that our well was not somehow connected to the septic.

But, I digress.

By and large, Pam and I have no complaints about being incorporated. We still live about thirty miles from downtown, in the country part of a big city, on the edge of the most populous county in the state, but surrounded by open fields and wooded areas, where wild geese fly low over head unhindered, where deer roam freely, where we have seen coyotes, owls, red hawks, roadrunners and even eagles, and where raccoons, skunks and possums do their own thing on our back porch with apparent impunity.

And it's OK. It could be worse.

bicker, bicker, bicker

As indicated in the previous entry, we moved to Newalla, OK, not quite two years ago. The previous blog dramatized one of the minor incidents we experienced. But, in the first months of country life, we had many other minor experiences, so many in fact that we were beginning to think that the place had been built on some ancient grave yard and that the residents thought it was time for a little poltergeist activity.

Here is a short list of some of the things that happened to us in the first year:

Dec 7, 2007, moved into the place.

Dec 10, ice storm hit; electricity went out for the next 10 days; lost all the trees lining the drive and we had to cut our way out. One tree fell on our rental truck. Oh, and a limb crashed through the roof of the old house we were selling and the patio roof caved in, repairs for both delaying the sale.

Continued cleaning up from the ice storm throughout 2008, 2009, and looks like Jackson Danger will be old enough to help out with this particular chore before completion.

Got sick with the worst flu ever. Dad was living with us at the time and was the first to get sick. We thought he was having a stroke. A few days later, Pam and I both went down for three days each, and I thought having a stroke would actually feel better.

Petey da Wiener Dog went lame.

In the process of burning off some of the ice storm debris, the east field caught fire, spreading toward neighbor's place; fire department called in to get some practice.

Computer crashed. We lost financial records, photos, addresses, phone numbers, and work stuff (now you know why we didn't call).

Chickens bought, chickens grown, chickens kidnapped by racoon (see previous post).

The car was hit by a deer on the road in front of our new home within 150 feet of the driveway - I said, "the car was hit by a deer", the deer was not hit by the car. The deer "T-boned" the car. The deer was shaken up a bit, but ran off into the woods without leaving insurance information. The car was repaired, but three days later was hit by careless person in a local parking lot.

Squirrels got ALL the pecans on all five pecan trees.

The truck was rear-ended, insurance company refused to pay for repair - they said they weren't responsible because their client was driving a borrowed car because hers was in the shop being repaired because of a previous accident. Settlement still pending.

Leak from the upstairs bathtub into the downstairs living room; fixed.

Leak from a water pipe flooding the downstairs dining room; wall had to be torn out to access the leak for repair; Had problems with insurance settlement, but fixed.

Water heater went bad, had to be replaced.

Upstairs air conditioner broke; not fixed, replaced by window units (turned out this lowered our electric bill, which says something about the efficiency the upstairs air conditioner).

Lawn tractor broke down; fixed at great cost.

Upstairs heater broke; not fixed yet (but, winters coming and the Farmer's Almanac predicts this winter will be colder than this summer has been).

The car had to have major engine work. Fixed, and now running great - but now we can't afford to go anywhere.

Numerous tornado warnings.

Two flash flood warnings.
Wild fires surrounding us.

Heat wave.

Blizzard.

The property taxes doubled - yes, DOUBLED - during 2008, apparently just because the property was "improved" merely by us moving in.

And Petey da Wiener Dog had a run in with a polecat ("skunk", for you non-redneck types).

The one thing we DID NOT experience this past year was a yete attack (although I swear we saw a chupacabra).

Now, I'm not complaining, I'm merely reporting. These things happen, I understand that. And don't get me wrong, I know that these things did not happen because we moved. And I don't think God was trying to tell us "something" and I don't believe God was "testing" us for some reason like He tested Job. I mean, really, do any of these incidents resemble anything Job went through?

Uh oh, just noticed that the downstairs air conditioner is not working. Didn't that break down last year? Let me check my list. . . . Well, I don't see it - but I'll be sure to add it for your reading pleasure.

Peace Out, y'all.

Chickens in Newalla

We moved to Newalla in the great state of Oklahoma in December 2007 - December 7th, 2007, to be exact. On December 10th, the Big Ice Storm of 2007 struck central Oklahoma, and Newalla is smack dab in the center of central Oklahoma. We thought it was Pearl Harbor all over again. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that we will still be cleaning up the property when the next election comes around, or when impeachment proceedings are held, whichever comes last.

Before we moved, Pam was a lover of nature. She loved the cute little squirrels and the rascally little racoons and the sweet little bunnies. She approached me after a few months on the property and demanded I get her a gun. Apparently, she no longer looks upon the pecan-stealing, chicken-killing, tomato-eating vermin with the same regard she once did.

We thought about having some pigs - not just those run-of-the-mill regular pigs, but because we like BBQ, we wanted to raise some of those pigs that had those spare ribs. We figure two or three pigs would do, depending on how long it would take for them to grow some more spare ribs once they were harvested.

Pam wanted to color coordinate her farmage. She wanted black and white cows, black and white pigs, black and white chickens. She likes the color purple so she planted some lavendar. But when the tomatoes ripened they clashed with the lavendar, so she pulled up the tomatoes.

We have some apple trees on the property. The first year the apples disappeared and we concluded that deer and other animals were eating them. So, this year, Pam put up a scare crow near the apple trees. She used PVC pipe to make the skeleton, used a bucket for a head with a straw hat on top and dressed it in one of the skirts she wore before it "shrank". The whole thing was kinda cute - every time I walked by it I was reminded of Pam, it looked so much like her. But it didn't do too much to keep the deer away. They continued to eat the apples and ate part of the straw hat and kept leaving derisive little notes pinned to the dress like, "NICE CLOTHES", or "THIS DRESS MAKES YOU LOOK FAT", or "WALMART SPECIAL" - things of that nature.

We thought about getting some cows. But we couldn't decide whether we should go dairy or beef. If dairy, then we were faced with the choice of what kind of cow would produce the best milk. We figured the milk would be pastuerized simply by letting the cows eat the grass in the pasture, but because of religious reasons we just couldn't be reconciled to homogenization. It was bad enough having a male cat and a male dog engaging in some inter-species relationship right under our noses in the house, we didn't think we were ready for what any low "mooing" early in the morning might mean.

So we turned our thinking to chickens. Last year, Pam bought four chickens (color coordinated, of course), and named them "Smiley", "Joy", "Happy", and "Rufus" (or something like that), and lovingly raised them from chicks to young adults - they were tender and juicy, succulent morsels of potential bar-b-qued flavor - at least that's how I saw them. Pam set up a coop in our garden shed. But, within a few weeks, the chickens began disappearing one by one without a trace. Finally, the only one left was "Joy" - quite appropriate, I thought, considering Pam's motto is "joy". She even has a "Joy Wall", displaying anything associated with "joy", like "Joyfulness", "Joy in the Morning", "Joy Dishwashing Detergent", things like that.

Well, anyway, one day, while Joy was aimlessly wandering the chicken run ruminating upon the possible fates of her companions and occassionally pecking the ground, Pam entered the garden shed and, glancing up toward the loft, her eyes met the banded eyes of a rogue racoon staring down at her. Little did we know, the racoon had established squatter rights in the upper loft of the shed, right above the chickens. I heard about it approximately 1.2 seconds later when Pam came rushing into the house screaming, "THERE'S A RACOON IN THE SHED!". Apparently, Pam didn't give any thought that she was leaving the last survivor alone with the culprit while traversing the 200 feet between the shed and the house to bring me this revelation.

Together, we hurried back to the shed, noticing along the way that Joy was still one of the spiritual gifts instead of an afternoon snack. I didn't see a racoon, but Pam pointed to the loft and whispered, "He was right there!". Silently, I headed toward the barn to get the step ladder with Pam in tow. Pam was evidently thinking of a plan, for as I reached for the step ladder she said, "You need to get the ladder." Carrying the ladder and a flashlight back to the shed, I cautiously climbed to get a view of the loft. Just before turning on the flashlight, I heard Pam say, "You might need a flashlight." - she was evidently still thinking of her plan. Using the light, I quickly saw the outline of our nemesis. Oh, he was a big one - fat, too. Scattered around him were various feathers and chicken bones. He had evidently been living and dining in style. I half expected to see an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece BarBQ sauce nearby.

I got a long stick and poked the racoon. He tensed up, but made no effort to remove himself from the comfortable accomodations he had established. Pam and I discussed how we could get the racoon out of the shed. The best I could finally come up with was to smoke him out. "But what if you burn the shed down?" asked Pam. I calmly explained that I would not have an open flame in the place, just some piece of smoldering rubber or something to produce smoke. "But, what if that catches fire and burns the shed down?" Pam insisted. Patiently I told her I would get the fire extinguisher and have it standing by. "But, what if something happens and the shed burns down?" Pam exclaimed. I yelled as rationally as I could that AT LEAST WE WOULD BE RID OF THE RACOON. To which, my dear wife, calmly told me not to yell at her, and she was merely concerned that Joy would not have a place to live if the shed burned down. At this I realized that she was still thinking upon her plan, and I did my level best to ignore her during the final preparations of burning down the shed - I mean, of smoking out the racoon.

Finally, all was ready. I had found a piece of rubber and a large metal can. After pouring a bit of gasoline into the can and placing the rubber in the can, I carefully placed the can in the center of the shed floor, directly beneath the abode of the racoon, lit a match, threw the match into the can from a respectful distance, and ran out the door.

The blazing contents soon caused the rubber to produce copious amounts of smoke, and Pam and I positioned ourselves to observe the imminent exit of the interloping procyon once he had had enough. Just as smoke began billowing out the door, we noticed that I may have used a bit too much gasoline, for the concoction was still spewing a considerable amount of flame that was spilling onto the shed floor, and appeared to be spreading. Pam anxiously asked, "Do you think you should have taken out the lawn mower and the tiller first? I mean, there is gas in the tanks, you know." Impulsively, I ran into the smoke filled shed and one by one retrieved the aforementioned equipment, along with all the other gas-powered equipment that weren't aforementioned, inhaling a large amount of smoke in the process.

When I had caught my breath, Pam asked me another anxious question: "Is it safe to keep the gas cans in there?" I resisted the tempatation to proclaim my confidence in the fireproof qualities of the five-gallon plastic containers (five each, a mere 25 gallons) and thought it best to again enter the potential death trap to rescue the gasoline.

(Note to any firefighers reading this: Please keep in mind that some of what is represented here is fictional and that there are very few people who believe I am stupid enough to have done such a thing. And there were no witnesses. And my wife cannot be trusted with the truth, either).

After a couple of harrowing minutes of heroic action on my part, Pam and I again positioned ourselves to watch the racoon vacate the premises. But, we never saw him come out. We waited till no more smoke was produced, and after the air cleared we took a peek into the loft - but no racoon. Apparently, the vermin was a student of Sun Tzu ("in chaos there is opportunity") and had donned his chem warfare gear and slipped out in the confusion while Pam and I were otherwise engaged.

Well, after lengthy discussion over the next few days, we knew we had to remove the loft from the shed - it was just too convenient a place for a varmint to hide amongst any chickens we might obtain in the future. So, I spent the next few days cleaning up the shed and tearing out the loft.

One thing about animals, they are creatures of habit. And like every good gourmet, they always return to the best eating establishments. Within a few days, there was no more "Joy" in the chicken coop. This time, though, I did find a trail of chicken feathers leading from the shed through the fence.

When I informed Pam of my findings, she sat for a moment, then proclaimed her distaste for all previously loved woodland creatures, especially racoons. And for the first time in our marriage, this paragon of virtue, this angel who is my wife, this sweet, kind-hearted, sensitive woman who had given names to chickens, told me with steel in her eyes that she wants to buy an AR-15, or an M134 minigun, whichever we could afford - to protect and defend her farmage in the United States against all enemies, foreign and domesticated.

And she changed her motto: She still has a "Joy Wall", but beneath it, in bold gothic font, reads the following:
"Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out."