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July/August 2006 Features
Them Pesky Critters
by Webb Williams
Don’t get me wrong. I love all of God’s creations. Well, most creations, that is. But I question the value of pesky critters like mosquitoes, deer flies, raccoons, possums, wild pigs, snakes and dogs that bark all the doggone time and have a propensity to slaughter my innocent green-egg-laying chickens.
Twenty-six years ago, we built our family home on the northshore in Houltonville, about a city block away from a beautiful marsh and swamp that serve the lake and the Tchefuncte River. We call our home “Beau Swamp.” Ours was the second home on acre-plus lots—enough room to have chickens, I figured. Since my commercials and ads for Popeyes were somewhat responsible for the slaughter of billions of chickens, I figured I’d give something back to the species. After all, if the Creator were a chicken fancier, this might be my shot at making amends, I reckoned.
Raccoons—banditos de la noche
Critters, especially raccoons, were very appreciative of my chicken flock. They came with their bandit eye masks in the night to steal our cat’s food and rip apart our garbage, but seemed to find the chickens more attractive. They liked the eggs—in particular, the pastel-green-shell variety that my Auracanas lay. (Guess that’s where Dr. Seuss came up with “Green Eggs & Ham.”)
’Coons might look cute and cuddly with their Davey Crockett-coonskin-cap-fuzzy-wuzzy appearance, but they can be vicious criminals, I’ll tell ya. A neighbor tried to convince me of their sweet disposition with one she’d raised from an abandoned ’coonbabe to adolescence. I saw her trying to tame it in a big cage, and all the while the ’coon was scratching the heck out of her arms and back. I suggested the wild thing was ready to be released back to the wild, and she agreed. It was probably one of the very vermin that later wreaked havoc on my garbage and chickens.
What really aggravates me about raccoons is they’re often so much smarter than me. It burns me up to be outwitted by a four-legged critter like a dadgoned raccoon. They can find the weakest spot of the chicken coop wiring, or simply lure the chickens with some Svengali seduction through the chicken wire and wring their innocent feathered necks. If they do bust into the cage? Faggetaboutit! They’ll eat all the eggs and kill all the birds. I think they’re in cahoots with possums too, ’cause the ’coons just kill the chickens for sport and their possum accomplices come behind them and feast. Possums are probably on the top ten ugliest critters list in the animal kingdom, but their babies are cute as can be.
’Coons, clever as they are, are just downright rude, too. They enjoyed the corn, tomatoes and bell peppers in my garden, but never had the decency to leave me even a thank you note. And, once again, my fencing efforts to thwart the menacing night marauders proved ineffectual. I’m gettin’ mad.
’Coon relocation
program—¡Adios, banditos!
So, I went to Marsolan Feed in Covington and got me a fancy high-tech critter trap. It cost a lot more than I thought, but, heck, even chicken feed don’t cost chicken feed no more. The critter trap worked great. The ’coons would go in to enjoy the cat food or peanut butter or slice of livercheese bait that I delicately placed in the trap, and in the morning I would greet my captive with glee. I was then faced with the issue of transporting the fugitive to a spot far enough away—they roam an area of a coupla square miles—so I decided to release them in an unpopulated swampy area across the Tchefuncte River. It was an interesting process, loading the varmit in the trap cage and then loading it in the back of my van, with plastic bags protecting the carpet. Don’tcha know that, more often than not, the dadratted critter would poop on the way to its relocation program destination, stinkin’ up my vehicle big time. I stopped usin’ the livercheese as bait. They always seem to turn and thank me after I release them to the wild. I think to myself, “I wish we could’ve been friends, but you keep messin’ with my crop and my flock. So, see ya later!”
Squirrels—It’s a bird feeder, darn it!
My next downfall came with trying to attract pretty birds to my deck’s birdfeeder. But, in my silly sense of economy, I first used a wooden pole. Needless to say, the squirrels thought they found a real rube and gleefully proceeded to decimate all the birdfeed I loaded into the feeder. So my war with squirrel thieves began with my super-gluing thumbtacks to the pole. The squirrels looked at me through my dining room window, laughing and thanking me for the grips for their nasty little paws, which expedited their trip to my birdfeeder. I was introduced to the term “tree rat,” and understood it. Again, the squirrel is certainly a lovely critter, but totally disrespectful to the wishes of a humanoid. Present company, especially.
Switching to an iron pole, I figured the criminal squirrel element would not be able to claw its way into the structure, and I wouldn’t have to replace my birdfeeder on a daily basis thereafter. Once more, to my chagrin, the critter element was smarter and feistier than the Webb element. The little buggers shimmied up that metal pole faster than ever and seemed to shoot me a thank you salute on the way. I coulda sworn they were mockin’ me with the little squirrelly squeaky sound they do when they put one over on us, but they stopped when I opened the window.
Figuring I was up against a rare variety of highly evolved intelligent supersquirrels, I wrote signs in red bold lettering on my birdfeeder, “BIRDS ONLY! NO SQUIRRELS ALLOWED!” I thought surely they were literate, but truth was that the varmints either couldn’t read or were just downright impertinent. They cleaned out my birdfeeder again, and I thought I saw one making circular motions with its nasty little fingerclaw by the side of his furry little head. He seemed to point at me and cackle to his partners in crime.
To try to make a long story short, I put lube laced with cayenne pepper on the metal pole and laughed my whatchamacallit off as I saw the squirrel intruders slippin’ down the pole. It rained that night. I awoke to an empty birdfeeder.
I needed some serious technology. So I headed back to the experts at Marsolan Feed & Seed and got a squirrel baffle that solved the problem. The tree rats would climb up with their usual arrogance, only to be baffled by a no-squirrels-allowed device that made the songbirds, and me, happy. Peace returned to Beau Swamp. For the time being, that is.
My wife’s elderly cousin passed on recently, and, in his eulogy, his son recounted the longtime-Covington-resident’s war with squirrels. He used the same humane food trap device that I do—but he was plagued with squirrels and wanted to do a systematic relocation of his birdfeeder bandits. So he’d catch ’em and bring ’em to his friends at H. Smith & Sons Hardware in Covington, ’cause he thought they might take care of them as they saw fit. Unbeknownst to him, they would routinely release the squirrels on a lot so close to his that he was actually recycling the same doggone tree rats!
Wild pigs—Get out
the way, the sod
busters are comin’!
A dear friend and neighbor a coupla blocks away moved here from New York with his wife and two children. He loved living in our neighborhood until one evening, when his newly sodded lawn that he nutured with great care was attacked. Wild pigs from the swamp tore up his acre-plus lot something fierce, turning his well-manicured lawn into what looked like a blast site. I must say that he had a great sense of humor about it, raising his arms in disbelief and bemoaning, “Thirty-five homes in the neighborhood and they pick on me, a Jew from Brooklyn! What do I know from wild pigs? I don’t even eat ’em!”
I referred him to a friend who’s a bow hunter. He engaged him to shimmy up a tree and take a few out when they attacked his yard again. The hunter enjoyed a fresh cochon de lait and was surprised when he got a phone call from my neighbor friend. The pig attack victim said, “We never talked money,” to which the hunter replied, “How much do I owe you? The pigs were delicious!” They had a good laugh, and no money changed hands. The pigs never bothered my friend again.
Canine carnage—
the attack of the labs
I’m more of a cat fancier than a dog lover. Not that I have anything against dogs. I just think cats are more mysterious and graceful. Their affection is earned, not automatic.
A neighbor moved in some years back and had a coupla cats. No problem. They don’t make noise, they take care of mice and other pests, and that’s good. Then she got up to about 10 cats and said she’d like to add chickens to her growing menagerie. I suggested she just get hens, as roosters can make a lot of noise and disturb our tranquil country peace. One of her hens turned out to be a rooster that had a gol-darned crow that woke the neighborhood at the worst times.
But that was then. Now she has about a dozen dogs. They bark. The neighbor next to her bought a dog that specializes in barking back at the least provocation. Luckily, as I age, my hearing is fading a bit, but it’s a tough solution to an annoying problem.
My best friend lives a few blocks away, and he luu-uuu-vvvs his four black labs. They do their territorial bark when outside, too, but since he lives a few blocks away, I don’t have any problem with it. But before the hurricane, two of his beautiful black labs, bred specifically to hunt birds, escaped his failed electronic fence and slaughtered about 20 of my chickens and two prized pheasants. Like ’coons, they just decimated the flock for sport and didn’t eat them.
I was sad, but I felt for my friend, as well. Until he started joking about chicken recipes, that is. I countered that some oriental dog recipes might prove tasty, too. He’s an attorney, and I asked if it would be a conflict of interest for him to represent me suing him. That didn’t pan out, but he has paid for the restoration of my flock. (He wrote “Dog food” in the memo section of the check.) We get along just fine. We had breakfast this morning at the Broken Egg, in fact. I picked up the tab, since he picked up the tab at Galatoire’s the last time we played hooky for lunch.
The eggs were tasty, but mine are fresher, I’ll bet.
