Farmers are people that know the value of a good night's sleep. Farmers, probably, are not people that say "I just couldn't get to sleep last night." More likely, it's the farmer saying, "Guess what woke me up in the middle of the night!"
The Farmer Man and I always say we are going to "go to bed early" because we get up at 7 am now for milking. I know, 7 am doesn't sound that early to some people, but we used to have to be practically scraped out of bed at 9. The last few nights, we have been sticky with the "early to bed" rule, but are always prevented from actually GOING to sleep once we get there. Thunderstorms, crying goats, phone calls, squeaky ceiling fans, water running in the toilet. Last night, it was the long, low GROWL-HISS of a cat.
This sort of feline behavior is nothing out of the ordinary. Our new farm came with two resident cats, "the boys" - who we have dubbed AC for Adventure Cat, and Onslo - if you know who Onslo is, you watch just as much British television as we do, and you can guess precisely what sort of cat our Onslo is! lol. Anyway, our cat, Lucy, does not get along with the boys at all. She is not willing to change her mind on the subject, and refuses to even discuss the matter. She does not like those boys. She does not like them from across the deck, up the hill, over the stream or on top of the dog house. She certainly does not like them on her porch or sticking their noses in "her" bowl. So, we hear that banshee cat screech quite often at our house these days.
Last night, after the screeching woke us up, the Farmer Man went out to tell those cats to knock it off so we could get some "shut eye." He flung the front door open to find Onslo, yowling his head off at a big, fat, manky old possum. GROSS! Thank you Onslo, for drawing this to our attention. The Farmer Man yelled and tried to act scary, "Get out of here, you! GROSS!" (everyone can agree on that!) Mr. Possum's response was to amble off and around the deck, in a completely unhurried way.
Some weeks ago, my uncle lent me a .22 pistol to help out with our raccoon problem. We had not used to gun before, as we found someone who would take the live coons. Dear Farmer Man came into our bedroom in the dark and tried to load the gun and put it back together. Needless to say, bullets were lost in the carpet and there was a general ruckus. But, the possum still hung around, picking through the backyard for...what? I don't know.
So, a scantily clad Farmer Man is standing on the deck, at 11 at night, trying to shoot a possum who is trundling around almost directly under our deck. The farmer woman is still in bed, because I don't particularly care for seeing possums. It's, perhaps, an unreasonable phobia, but whenever I see one, I want to run and hide. So, I put the pillow over my head and heard one, two...three...shots. I hoped the Farmer Man had shot the possum (because they are skeezey and disgusting and will kill chickens if they get half a chance), but I also hoped he HADN'T shot the possum, because this Farmer Woman does not want to be anywhere near a possum, dead or alive. I did not want to help dig a hole for that fat rat!
Long story short, the Farmer Man missed. I finally dragged myself out on to the deck, where I was promptly handed the pistol. "You try!" He said. I pulled the hammer back and attempted to aim, but every time I saw that thing in the site, my skin would start to crawl. I helplessly handed the gun back to the Farmer Man. "I can't do this. I don't know why." I said, hang-doggedly. So, the Farmer Man gave it one more try. Another miss. Then old Mr. Possum, who was pretty oblivious to all these happenings above his head, sidled off under some brush.
The Farmer Man and I decided to try again with the whole sleeping idea, but as soon as we'd gotten covered up, there was a great clamoring outside our side door, just outside the screen porch. Yup! The possum. Right up on the breezeway, eating cat food. GROSS! (I feel like I've said that before). Not wanting to blow a hole in the garage, the Farmer decides to shoot the possum with an air rifle to scare it away. Possums, apparently, are not afraid of BB guns. The Farmer shot him 3 times, and Mr. Possum never even stopped eating. Now that is some food dedication!
The next closest weapon was a steel shank size 12 work boot. The Farmer Man whizzed the boot, and bowled over the possum, which laid on its back momentarily and hissed, too fat to even right itself for a moment. Then it squished its fat bottom and it's little disgusting, naked tail into my tiny hosta. "Get out, you creepy weirdo!" It just sat there and stared at us while Dear Farmer set the trap.
In the morning, the trap was not sprung, and there was an imprint of something horrible in my hosta. As I'm typing this post, Mr. Possum is back, skittering around on the back deck. I hope he goes for the pork chops in the trap tonight. Then again, maybe I don't. That means I would have to see him in the light of day! GROSS!
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