Aint No Rocket
Raccoons were back. Luckily the twenty adult birds that were headed to be slaughtered by Ben Shaw the very next morning were fine. Those were birds already promised to friends and neighbors. These birds, the chicks, were for one other friend and myself, and I had counted a loss of a dozen. Welcome to homesteading: sometimes things die.
I set up the Hav-a-hart trap right away, setting it behind the chick tractor with one of the bodies of the fallen. Then I went into protection mode. Setting up lights and a radio for the night, as well as setting my alarm for a late night watch. The .22 was loaded and by the door with a spot light ready for Half Past Dark. I would not lose these birds I worked so hard to raise to a varmint freeloader. Nope.
I sleep on the second floor of my house all summer in a bedroom with a box fan in the window. I wonder if that fan is the reason I didn't wake up for the tussle? But not even Gibson heard it (who sleeps next to me like we're an old married couple, gods help the man who ends up here and has to fight for that stop), and him not hearing it makes me even more certain it was the raccoons. Foxes take one animal at a time after a huge noiseburst and run off with their prey. Weasels sneak in and kill as much as they can, sucking blood out of toothmarks in necks like little vampires. Fisher cats pull horses up into trees and perform black masses... but raccoons, they pull and tear like a kid lose in a ball pit. This was raccoons.
I hope they bring their Fantastic Mr. Fox A Game tonight, because it is on!