A Tough Question

I won't say much about this one, but just ask yourself if you would eat this: 3:00pm randomly placed in the parking lot outside of Target? It's in perfect condition, and seems to have been delicately placed in the mulch by someone who cared about it; maybe they really wanted it but couldn't possibly eat anymore. I thought it looked like it was left for me. I won't tell you if I ate it or not. The real question is, "Would you?"

Rocky Raccoon

Yesterday, while putting down a little mulch at Mrs. Morrissey's, Jorge noticed a couple live traps in her back yard, one of which contained a raccoon. Mrs. Morrissey informed me that she was actually trying to catch a groundhog, that lived under her porch, but had only caught four raccoons so far, and every time she caught one, she had to pay the company to come remove the animal, and it was getting pretty expensive. She said that they did not kill the animals, but that they released them into the wild; I half expected her to describe a farm where the raccoons could play with all the other woodland creatures and eat their favorite foods out of their very own personalized garbage cans, if you know what I mean.

It was about 92 degrees and humid, and I realized that maybe Rocky's (the raccoon's) placid demeanor was probably not because he was patiently awaiting his trip to "Critter Acres," but maybe he was really just thirsty and hungry. Mrs. Morrissey explained that he had been there for almost two days, and the company had not come to collect the trap yet. I decided to get him a drink. Every day, I take two bottles of frozen water to work, and one was about a quarter thawed, so I set out to give little Rock (the raccoon) a drink.

If you have ever heard a threatened raccoon snarl and growl, then you know that as I poured a little water into the cage and he freaked out, I nearly shit my pants. An angry raccoon sounds much like a wolf and a bear at the same time; nonetheless, he did settle and start lapping up the couple drops remaining.

Before we left, I wanted to make sure little Rock's thirst was quenched so he would be more comfortable waiting for his "ride," so I affixed my frozen water bottle to the top of his cage between the bars so it would drip for a couple of hours, and he could not only have a nice cool drink, but some activity to kill...scratch that--pass the time. Jorge left him a couple crackers, and we were off to the next job.

I would say, based on the above photo, that my little contraption worked pretty well. This blog would be much cuter if I could upload the video on my phone with his rather long tongue flicking in and out rapidly, but this pic will have to do. God speed, Rocky, and enjoy that farm. Maybe some day I'll come see you.

A Special Occasion

Some months back, I bought Lib's cat, Neb, a mouse that looked rather European and was attached to an elastic string. She was very exited about her new toy the first time we played with it, but I have noticed how cats often tire of a new toy rather quickly, so I came up with a plan: I would put the mouse away and only very rarely play with it to preserve the new-toy mystique. It worked. Some months ago, when we were dogsitting a friend's dog, Neb hid at the bottom of the steps, so I had to attach a dowel rod to the elastic string to reach her. I have since named it Special Occasion Mouse (it even has its own song to the tune of "Secret Agent Man").

So what better occasion to bust it out than last night when Neb chased a bee into the light fixture above the back stairs. Real-live quarry is always exhilarating for an indoor cat, so when I pulled out special occasion mouse to coax the bee out, I was surprised her head did not explode from over-stimulation. Between meowing at the light and batting Spec Oc Mouse when I lowered it, Neb was having the time of her life. The bee seemed trapped and reaching it with the stick was not going to work; plan B was to lower Special Occasion Mouse into the globe so that the bee would sting it and die, and the bee did attack it on several occasions, and eventually went quiet. My plan had worked.

Neb and I goof around quite a bit, but when things get serious, all that teamwork and training really pays off. I know Lib thinks we are silly, but like many other species, playing hones our reflexes and communication skills for when we really need to come together.

Update: Looks like our efforts last night failed. As I was sitting down this morning to write this blog, Neb rousted our prey from some corner and chased it across the room, but we did come together to trap it in a window, where I smashed it with Lib's slipper. Go Team!

Catfishstravaganza III

You may remember my post last year where my niece, Daisy, was sprawled out sleeping amongst the catfish. Well, regrettably, Daisy wasn't around for this year's excursion, but we went to my uncle's pond again for the third annual catfish catch and fry. The first year we caught around thirty fish in three hours and once we started to fillet them, we realized we had our hands full, but I was impressed more that we cleaned so many catfish while drinking without at least someone slicing a finger off. Last year we ended up with eighteen, and still had our hands full. This year we only scraped by with eight, but that didn't mean it was uneventful-quite the contrary!

The first year, after Daisy had been worn out by numerous catfish, she hooked into General Sherman, a Leviathan of a fish, but as she reeled him close to shore he gave one last lunge and thrash and snapped her line. I saw his head come out of the water, and it looked to me about two fists wide, grizzled and mottled--a true beast. She nearly cried. Last year, Brian hooked into the hogger, we suspect, and battled him until it broke his line. He nearly cried.

This year, was Andy's turn. The day started with Andy creating a song for Brian's fourteen-foot Chinese cane pole he got as a gift on a business trip to China that came in a giant carrying case with a built-in stand: "Brian's Chinese cane pole; it comes in a golf bag and looks so very fine..." It turns out the ancient Chinese secret was how to string the thing, and the directions did not help much, since they were all in Chinese. But I digress. Not long into the morning, after a couple average catches, good eating size, Andy hooked into a whale. It was another battle; we all had our fingers crossed, and fortunately for Andy, the fancy golf/cane pole bag had a retractable landing net that Brian used to bring the monster ashore. I swear I had seen that mottled face two years before...General Sherman! He weighed 5lbs 2oz and measured at 26.5 inches. Now whether this is The General or not remained to be seen, but he definitely fit the bill.

Brian, still reeling from last years disappointing loss, cast his lot in the same deep hole as last year's battle royale. I had sent him off for more bait because he had shoes on, and I didn't, so he left his pole and jogged to the other side of the pond while I watched his pole leaned against a giant rock, a pretty safe spot to leave your pole, unless General Sherman is actually still in the pond. I saw the pole bend violently, but by the time I ran the eight feet back to it, it had lifted of the ground, bounced off the top of the rock, and shot into the pond. Before I could get my phone out of my pocket and dive in (which I was poised to do by the time Brian sprinted back in a panic) the pole disappeared like a shot into the deep. Brian stood in disbelief, both hands pasted to the top of his head, staring into the abyss.

Maybe The General had not been caught. Maybe our arrogance had made us feel comfortable and safe. Maybe something greater than all of us decided we needed a slice of humble pie. Regardless, I felt responsible. I had sent Brian for more bait, and I had been on watch when the pole was ripped from the shore. The only chance I had was to drag the pond with my catfish rig in the hopes I could snag the pole. Brian was disheartened and pessimistic, and Andy just watched shaking his head at my pathetic attempt to redeem myself. What were the chances?

It turns out, they were pretty good! On the fourth cast and drag, I felt my hook snag something. Everyone held their breath, and when my hook came out of the water, it was attached to fishing line, and right behind it emerged Brian's pole, tip first like Excalibur from the murky depths, but the fish was not there. Directly after, on the same rod, we suspect that Brian caught the very same fish who had just taken his pole.

Overall, I only caught one catfish, but we had a great time and plenty of fish for a successful cookout over an open fire. Whether or not Andy actually did catch General Sherman or not remains to be seen until next year, but there were enough close calls and snapped lines to lead us to believe he may still be out there waiting and laughing at our pathetic attempt to tame the creatures that lurk fifteen feet below the surface of my aunt and uncle's pond.