When I pulled into the garage last night, a little black chicken bustled up the walk to give me a piece of her mind.
Now, there are several things wrong with this. Chickens belong in the chicken yard, not the people yard. It was way past her bedtime. Most of all, none of them ever run towards me without checking to see if I have food first.
I caught sight of a lot of dark feathers on the ground, two cowering red hens, and the tail end of something heading up into the giant maple. Greta popped up from the junk pile she had been hiding under, so all the chickens seemed to be okay (if missing some insulation). My attention turned to the little bandit in the tree
This was not my usual Possum Nuisance. This was a raccoon and raccoons are Serious Business. Possums are kind of dumb and afraid to dig lest they break a nail; raccoons can hotwire cars and solve Rubiks cubes.
I threw a hairbrush at him.
Hey, it was handy. I’m not so embarrassed about that. I was embarrassed to find myself saying “Get out of here, you mean old raccoon!” like a character on some ABC family special involving a talking rodent family and their trials and tribulations.
I hit him, too. He looked kind of surprised, but didn’t really leave (my deadly skill with hairbrush throwing has perhaps been exaggerated). I threw it again, hit him again. On the third throw, the hairbrush went over the fence into the neighbor’s yard, and I still had a raccoon sitting there looking at me, so I sprayed him some with the garden hose for good measure.
I’m not sure I actually accomplished anything, other than dropping the hint that this wasn’t just a posh organic chicken buffet with salad bar, but it was kind of funny. Then again, I am out a good brush and I’m not that excited to go explaining to weird republican neighbor-man how it ended up on his property.
Done rambling, school now!
