Have I ever mentioned that I am not necessarily of the animal loving persuasion?
Don’t get me wrong, fuzzy kittens are cute. Puppies are fun, too. Baby calves, showing cattle, pigs all piled up on their mamas, baby chicks, all those sweet country images inspire me to say, “Awwww. How sweet.” just like the rest of you people.
However, getting up close and personal with the wild kingdom isn’t what I like to do. I have been given the opportunity to have many pets since living out here, and by the grace of God, have not had to be the primary care giver, per se, although I do seem to be the prime pooper scooper, water giver, move-out-of-the-wayer, etc.
I’m digressing.
Anyway, our dog barks. A lot. He’s a beagle, and I think a bit neurotic and afraid of the dark, so after hours, if you’re tooling around our road, you may hear Joe hollering, “Walter…SHUT UP!” Walter loves animals in our yard at night (note the sarcasm), and now that we have these two kittens (Bolt and Joy…guess which one is the boy and which is the girl based on the names, and you’ll be WRONG!), he feels a sense of purpose up on our porch at night.
Thus the treed raccoons we woke up to on Saturday morning.
Not just one, mind you, but THREE.
Is a weekend’s mood predicted by the presence of three raccoons in your front tree?
For this weekend, the answer was yes.
So, Walter had done his job, treeing these furry rascals (my kids were convinced they would attack anyone who went out there, thanks to the movie, Elf.).