For much longer than I have been a McDonald, Bracken Ridge Ranch has mounted a very large star of Bethlehem in the lower pasture closest to the highway. It has been an annual tradition that dates back at least 40 years. This has become such an community involved tradition that if we are late in setting it up, passersby' s stop and ask us why it isn't up yet. So in order to save the stress of pressure from total strangers, we decided to put it up last night.
Mind you, this star is not small. It is about 10 feet from point to point and made of medium weight metal conduit configured to look like a big star. It is illuminated by approximately 50 large clear bulbs, and puts on quite a nice display that can be seen from the highway.
This year instead of mounting it its traditional place in the lower pasture we decided (actually I decided) it might be nice to put it on top of our livestock shed in the upper pasture. Given the season and all, I'm heretofore going to refer to the livestock shed as the "manger."
Now here's what happened: My husband and I wrestled the gigantic star from the barn where it was stored, and with much difficulty and grunting hoisted to the roof of the "manger." With the aid of a very long extension cord we plugged it in, and as you might suspect...most of the lights were burned out. We began twisting and fidgeting with them trying to make them work, but as we did so my husband, Bruce, noticed the wiring was beginning to deteriorate.
Not wanting to electrocute ourselves or burn the "manger" down, we (he) decided that I should go to town to purchase some new strands of traditional lights. For those of you who know Bruce, you most likely know he is somewhat of a perfectionist bordering on an OCD complex. He likes things to be "just right." So he composed a long list of items for me to pick up in town: This particular size, this particular length, this particular watt (what?)
Shopping wasn't that difficult. I quickly filled his order and returned home beaming with confidence and pride. When I pulled into the driveway I noted that he had the star all torn apart and was rebuilding it. To be helpful I unwound the strands of lights and laid them carefully in order on the ground.
It was getting dark and the ground was beginning to freeze making it difficult to work. Within minutes we were both holding flashlights between our teeth and frantically trying to attach the lights. Alas, it grew darker and darker. The challenge: can two very cold people, working on frozen ground in the dark, string semi-frozen strands of lights on a very cold metal star?
Not very well at all...but then I had a brilliant idea. Since about half of the lights were already back on the star, logic said that we should plug it in and use the light from them to work with.
Ahh, but somehow when logic comes from my lips it somehow becomes totally illogical and weird. None-the-less Bruce nodded his head in agreement so I slipped and slid across the yard to the outlet and plugged the lights in. Nothing happened. He yelled "Any time is fine!" (cold makes us all grumpy)
I hollered back that the lights were plugged in. In the darkness I heard him stand, take a few steps and slip on the frozen ground. It made an interesting swooshing/thud sound. He muttered something that I couldn't make out, but there are times when it isn't absolutely necessary to hear what someone else says under their breath, so I wisely didn't ask him to repeat it.
So there we were, 2 new strands of lights that came with a guarantee that if one light goes out the rest stay on. Apparently they lie. I had brought home not one, but two bad strands of lights. How could that be?
The next thing I knew I heard Bruce's heavy footfalls stomping on the frozen ground headed directly toward the outlet....and me. My mind whirled as I wondered if somehow I had plugged the strands in with the fat ground prong seated the wrong slot or I had done something equally as stupid.
Before I could check, he was there plugging and unplugging the strands in the socket. "We blew a fuse then!" he grumbled and stomped off toward the house. I was hot on his heels as we entered the dark house and he flipped the breaker switches up and down, up and down...nothing. He flipped the fuse box cover shut with such a sudden snap that it alerted my keen sense of perception to the fact that he was pretty darn upset and getting more so by the minute. "Must be the other fuse box." he grumbled.
"Right! the other fuse box!" I had forgotten there was a second box outside in the Tank House (someday I'll explain what the Tank House is and what it does, but be rest assured we do not keep military tanks in it.)
Once there he again flipped the breaker switches up and down several times with no results. "Well!" he said so loudly it nearly cracked my frozen face "I have no idea what we did, but we have NO power!" He brushed past me and stomped back to toward the "manger." I was once again hot on his heels, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground. Amazingly his feet gripped the ice with unbelievable precision! I felt like a rag -doll on ice!
Bruce yanked the strands of lights out of the socket and was once again mumbling things under his breath that I had no desire to hear. I glanced up toward the sky and silently sent a up a one word prayer.... "help."
Then in all its splendor there in the sky above me was the REAL star of Bethlehem. It was glorious and brilliant against the dark horizon. ...wait, the dark horizon? Immediately I knew something was not right.
I spun around so quickly I lost my already iffy footing and slid (although I might add, very gracefully) down a slight incline and ended up wedged against Bruce's boots. "umm" I said (very quietly) "Bruce, the power is out" He reached down to pull me to my feet and said "Right, now tell me something I don't know! I pointed across the highway and said "No..I mean the power is out.. everywhere...it's not just us, the whole neighborhoods power is out...look"
We had been so wrapped up in our own immediate problem that we hadn't notice the whole neighborhood was out of power. We learned later that a tree limb somewhere had fallen across the power lines and disrupted the power to about 7,000 homes.
He stared blankly at me for a few seconds and then we burst into a good laugh. After trudging back to the house, we started the generator and had a nice hot bowl of soup.
Tonight the infamous Star albeit over the " manger" will shine brightly...Oh star of wonder!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Skunked...Again
A lot of things have happened since my last entry. For one thing I no longer entertain the thought of becoming a professional skunk trapper. I'll admit when the UPS driver first delivered my Wiley Coyote Acme Beginners Trapping Kit I had ideas of becoming a world famous skunk trapper. That idea has since passed. I am now considering making my fortune by investing in the "Anti-Icky-Poo" odor removal business.
The Wiley Coyote Acme Trapping Kit was good, as far as it went. I soon realized however, it was to very elementary, so I invested in every type of trap, snare, net, and lure ever invented by man. I even researched the ancient Chinese methods of trapping as well as the early 1700's American Fur trappers methods. I bought, borrowed, and rented every mode of trap I could find. I had so many traps laying around that my husband, Bruce, was terrified to step outside for fear he'd wind up hanging upside down from a tree, or ensnared in a net. He needn't have worried. The traps set empty week after week.
I do have good news though. It is laced with a bit of bad news, but let's deal with the good news first. The good news is that I actually caught a skunk in one of the traps. The bad news is that it managed to get itself caught in one of those very large all wire havaheart traps. The kind, with the 1 inch welded wire mesh on all six sides. Whoever invented that trap had a sick sense of humor. It never occurred to me to question how one manages to remove a captured animal from the trap once it is in there.
As you can imagine the skunk was not happy with its predicament, but then neither was I happy with mine. I circled slowly around the cage at the distance of about 25 feet. With each cautious step the skunk stomped a warning with its front feet and then turned its back to me taking aim. There was no way I was going to get near the cage without getting doused.
Desperately looking for help I called the humane society and asked if they would come out and pick up the trap with the animal in it. That gave them quite a laugh. Apparently they only do mellow purring kitties and slurping kissing puppies. No skunks. I called my friends and neighbors and gave them all a good laugh as well. No one would come to my aid.
Someone suggested I use a large tarp as a shield as I moved toward the cage and when in close enough range, toss the tarp over the cage. I don't know why, but that sounded like a reasonable approach. If I ever remember who made that suggestion I have a few choice words for them. Actually, I'm not being fair. The idea was a good one, and it should have worked. Unfortunately here is what happened:
I thought the plan out carefully. Step one was to choose an old tarp, but not one so old that it had holes in it. (I am sure you can see my reasoning behind that decision.) Step two was to put on a long sleeved shirt (again my reasoning should be obvious.) Step three was to slip into my rubber boots, rain hat and gloves (same reasoning applies here.) I thought I was all set so off I went.
I hoisted the tarp up past my nose so that only my eyes , forehead and my hat was showing, and I moved cautiously one tiny step at a time toward the trapped skunk. At first it looked confused. Apparently it didn't recognize the big flat blue object moving toward it. I grinned behind my shield, this was going to be a piece of cake.
Step by step, inch by inch I closed the gap between us. Ever so cautiously I approached until I was almost within tossing distance. Just a couple more carefully planted steps. Soon I was within 4 feet of the cage. Maybe just one more step would do it. I didn't want the tarp to go askew when I tossed it and leave openings for the skunk to spray though.
Ahh, yes. At last, I was about 3 feet from the cage and all was well. The skunk had remained calm all this time, watching more out of curiosity than out of fear. It hadn't stomped a warning, and it hadn't turned its tail toward me. I just knew this would work! Thus far I hadn't considered what I would do once the tarp was over the cage, but that was something I could consider a bit later.
Carefully I extended the tarp out to arms length, the skunk gave a little bark and stomped. That was ok. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the big gust of wind that suddenly came up behind me and blew the bottom of the tarp straight out toward the cage with a loud crackling flap, leaving me totally exposed.
Surely I don't need to go into the stinking details here. Skunks being skunks will do what skunks will do. Never have I felt such a close kinship to Wiley Coyote and Lucille Ball!
Oh, and in case you are feeling more sympathy for the skunk than for me...forget it. In the commotion the skunk managed to flip the cage over and set itself free. I on the other hand spend the day soaking in Anti-Icky-Poo!
The Wiley Coyote Acme Trapping Kit was good, as far as it went. I soon realized however, it was to very elementary, so I invested in every type of trap, snare, net, and lure ever invented by man. I even researched the ancient Chinese methods of trapping as well as the early 1700's American Fur trappers methods. I bought, borrowed, and rented every mode of trap I could find. I had so many traps laying around that my husband, Bruce, was terrified to step outside for fear he'd wind up hanging upside down from a tree, or ensnared in a net. He needn't have worried. The traps set empty week after week.
I do have good news though. It is laced with a bit of bad news, but let's deal with the good news first. The good news is that I actually caught a skunk in one of the traps. The bad news is that it managed to get itself caught in one of those very large all wire havaheart traps. The kind, with the 1 inch welded wire mesh on all six sides. Whoever invented that trap had a sick sense of humor. It never occurred to me to question how one manages to remove a captured animal from the trap once it is in there.
As you can imagine the skunk was not happy with its predicament, but then neither was I happy with mine. I circled slowly around the cage at the distance of about 25 feet. With each cautious step the skunk stomped a warning with its front feet and then turned its back to me taking aim. There was no way I was going to get near the cage without getting doused.
Desperately looking for help I called the humane society and asked if they would come out and pick up the trap with the animal in it. That gave them quite a laugh. Apparently they only do mellow purring kitties and slurping kissing puppies. No skunks. I called my friends and neighbors and gave them all a good laugh as well. No one would come to my aid.
Someone suggested I use a large tarp as a shield as I moved toward the cage and when in close enough range, toss the tarp over the cage. I don't know why, but that sounded like a reasonable approach. If I ever remember who made that suggestion I have a few choice words for them. Actually, I'm not being fair. The idea was a good one, and it should have worked. Unfortunately here is what happened:
I thought the plan out carefully. Step one was to choose an old tarp, but not one so old that it had holes in it. (I am sure you can see my reasoning behind that decision.) Step two was to put on a long sleeved shirt (again my reasoning should be obvious.) Step three was to slip into my rubber boots, rain hat and gloves (same reasoning applies here.) I thought I was all set so off I went.
I hoisted the tarp up past my nose so that only my eyes , forehead and my hat was showing, and I moved cautiously one tiny step at a time toward the trapped skunk. At first it looked confused. Apparently it didn't recognize the big flat blue object moving toward it. I grinned behind my shield, this was going to be a piece of cake.
Step by step, inch by inch I closed the gap between us. Ever so cautiously I approached until I was almost within tossing distance. Just a couple more carefully planted steps. Soon I was within 4 feet of the cage. Maybe just one more step would do it. I didn't want the tarp to go askew when I tossed it and leave openings for the skunk to spray though.
Ahh, yes. At last, I was about 3 feet from the cage and all was well. The skunk had remained calm all this time, watching more out of curiosity than out of fear. It hadn't stomped a warning, and it hadn't turned its tail toward me. I just knew this would work! Thus far I hadn't considered what I would do once the tarp was over the cage, but that was something I could consider a bit later.
Carefully I extended the tarp out to arms length, the skunk gave a little bark and stomped. That was ok. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the big gust of wind that suddenly came up behind me and blew the bottom of the tarp straight out toward the cage with a loud crackling flap, leaving me totally exposed.
Surely I don't need to go into the stinking details here. Skunks being skunks will do what skunks will do. Never have I felt such a close kinship to Wiley Coyote and Lucille Ball!
Oh, and in case you are feeling more sympathy for the skunk than for me...forget it. In the commotion the skunk managed to flip the cage over and set itself free. I on the other hand spend the day soaking in Anti-Icky-Poo!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Those Darling Tree Frogs
There are a lot of reasons Tree Frogs are a welcome presence around homes. For example they consume mosquito larva and thus keep us free of dreaded diseases such as Yellow Spotted Swamp Fever. Equally important is their sweet melodious song that soothes the tumult of our souls at days end releasing us from mayhem, confusion and disorder.
Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.
Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.
By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.
Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!
By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.
Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.
It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.
While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.
Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"
Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.
Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!
Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.
Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.
By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.
Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!
By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.
Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.
It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.
While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.
Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"
Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.
Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Home Land Security?
My husbands father was a horse trader and collector of "things." There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the vast variety of items that found their way into his possession via trades or scavenges.
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A Tale of Pierced Ears and Cats
So long as I'm on the subject of cats, I may as well confess that a while back I raised purebred Manx cats. They are the ones that have a very short stubby tail and fairly long pointed ears. I like them because they don't have the snooty attitude most cats have, in fact their personality is more like a dogs.I enjoyed raising them, but dealing with the potential new owners often became a bit tedious. Here's what I mean:
I sold a beautiful female orange tabby kitten to an elderly woman who, instead of taking it home with her, asked if she could leave it here at the ranch until she could make an appointment with her vet to have it spayed. I was ok with that idea.
That evening she called and requested that the kitten not be fed for 12 hours prior to pick up, so it would be ready for surgery the next afternoon. I was ok with that idea as well.
The next morning, as was part of my custom when sending a new kitten home, I bathed her and vaccinated her. It went well considering she had not been given any dinner the night before or breakfast that morning. Some cats like water, some don't. She didn't.
At the appointed time, the new owner arrived with a wicker cat carrier looped over one arm. The carrier was quite fancy, and was even furnished with a plush purple velvet pad. In the woman's hand I saw a tiny black velvet box. The kind that very expensive jewelry come in. I was curious but said nothing as we exchanged niceties about the weather.
I then presented her with her new kitten. She bubbled with joy and busted with pride, every thing seemed to be going well.... until she handed the kitten back to me and said "I'd like you to do one more thing for me dear." She paused and flashed a big warm smile "I'd like you to pierce little Mona's right ear and put this diamond earring in it."
With that she flipped open the lid of the mysterious little black box to revel what appeared to be a 1/2 karat stud diamond earring, nestled deep in a silk lining. The sun danced off it and nearly blinded me. I giggled at what I thought was a joke.
"Excuse me?" I asked "You are not serious are you?" She looked at me like I was the village idiot and quipped "Of Course I'm serious!" I studied her face for signs of a joke, but saw none. She was dead on serious.
"Oh, well" I stammered "I think that is a job for your vet, I've never done anything like that before."
"Don't be silly dear" she retorted, "I've done it a thousand times, just take the end of your syringe needle and poke a little hole, clean it with alcohol and pop the earring in...simple!"
Well ok. I'm thinking ' If you've done it a thousand times why don't you do it now. Instead I said, "No seriously, I'm not comfortable with doing this."
She raised her eyebrows and said "There is nothing to it, I'd do it but look at my hands!" I looked at her hands, and saw they were bent with arthritis. My heart softened a bit, but my head kept telling me to run like heck from this deal. The clincher came when she said "If you can't do it then I can't buy Mona!"
That did it. She hit a soft spot, I needed the money. "Alright" I sighed, "But you'll have to walk me though it." She smiled and calmly held the cat while I prepared a fresh needle and sterilized the stud part of the earring with alcohol. When I was ready I took a deep breath and said "Again, I want you to know that I am not a veterinarian. I'm worried about infections and that sort of thing." "Not to worry dear" she smiled "Like I said I've done it a thousand times and I know how to care for healing ears, I won't hold you responsible. Besides nothing can go wrong " (Author's note: remember those words)
I exhaled and said "OK, here we go then, hold her tightly." Her eyes flashed wide open and she said "Oh no..Goodness NO, I couldn't do that! I could never watch you poking a hole in little Mona's ear!"
I crossed my eyes and said "But ..." by then she was halfway out the door "But wait" I called "You said you've done this a thousand times before!" Her voice faded as she fled the room but I heard her say "Good Grief NO! I've never done it to a kitty dear, just children!" My heart stopped beating.
Well, alright, how difficult could it be. (Author's note: remember those words) I had marked a little X where she wanted the piercing done. I mean seriously here. I've given tons of kittens and puppies their vaccinations, how much more difficult could it be to poke one tiny hole in a cats ear.
I think it was about then that the kitten got suspicious. It extended its claws and braced itself on the table. Maybe it was the smell of the alcohol swab that tipped it off. Maybe it was just hungry or maybe it was the smell of my fear...what ever it was, it put the kitten in a guarded sate of mind. Me too.
I gently but firmly grasped the kitten and started to insert the needle. The kitten would have no part of it. She managed to violently squirm out of my grasp. In so doing she tipped over the bottle of alcohol and sent the needle flying.
Plan B: I picked up the bottle of alcohol and placed it on the table, noting that only about 2/3rd was remaining. I opened a new needle and crawled under the table to retrieve the cat. This time I tried a new tactic. I wedged the kitten carefully against the wall with one arm to give me a little better control. No good. The minute she felt the first light prick of the needle she was airborne. The momentum sent the alcohol thudding once again to the floor. The needle however found a new resting place...in my finger.
I called to the owner for assistance but she waved me off and said "You can do it."
Plan C: I picked up the now half empty bottle of alcohol, put a Band-aid on my finger, got another new needle, and looked under the table for the kitten. She was gone. I crawled around on my hands and knees softly calling the traditional "here kitty kitty, here sweet little kitty" but she was nowhere to be seen. How could a person lose a kitten? Well, of course a person couldn't and I eventually found her.
My new plan was to sit in a chair and firmly but gently hold the kitten between my knees giving me use of both hands. Amazingly that plan did work. The needle went nicely into the cats ear at precisely the same time the the cats teeth went into my left knee. It was painful, but at least I was still holding on to her so things were looking up. I ignored the blood running down my leg.
The rest would be easy. All I had to do was pull the needle out, swab the ear again and insert the diamond stud. The kitten didn't seem to be in any pain, she just seemed down-right mad. None-the-less, I was able to take her by the nape of the neck and place her on the table. Next, tried to sooth her a bit before taking the next step.
After a brief calming period for both of us, I reached for the diamond stud. To my horror there was nothing there but an empty black box. The big beautiful and very expensive diamond earring was gone. I broke into a sweat. I felt dizzy and nauseous.
I didn't want to put the kitten down because she still had the needle dangling in her ear, and I didn't want to let the new owner know the diamond was missing. I knew I was in some pretty serious trouble here. Dollar signs began to dance in my eyes as I thought about having to replace the diamond earring..maybe it was just the squiggles that come prior to a fierce migraine. It doesn't matter which, the point is I was seeing stars because I was in a total panic. I did what a lot of women do when they are in total panic. I cried.
I dropped to my knees feeling around with my left hand while dangling the kitten from my right hand. For a fleeting moment I considered carrying the kitten in my mouth the way mother cats do so I could have both hands free to feel around for the earring. I quickly dismissed the idea however, when I remembered the needle dangling from the cats ear. I know lip piercing is in style, but it's just not me.
I think I understand what people mean when they say they were in a blind panic. Nervous sweat was rolling down my forehead, and into my eyes causing me to blink wildly. What a sight it must have been.
Just then my neighbor came in the back door, took one look at me and barked "What in god's name are you doing woman ?" As I explained through my Lucille Ball like sobs, she tossed me a towel, took the kitten, and in a flash spotted the earring on the floor. With her help sweet little Mona soon had her earring in place and was riding down the driveway in the front seat of her new owners car. I waved weakly and pulled out three more Band-aids for my bleeding knee.
Later as I sat and sipped coffee with the neighbor. We considered opening a cat ear-piercing parlor. Who knows it could be a multi-million dollar business...minus the expense of Band-aids.
I sold a beautiful female orange tabby kitten to an elderly woman who, instead of taking it home with her, asked if she could leave it here at the ranch until she could make an appointment with her vet to have it spayed. I was ok with that idea.
That evening she called and requested that the kitten not be fed for 12 hours prior to pick up, so it would be ready for surgery the next afternoon. I was ok with that idea as well.
The next morning, as was part of my custom when sending a new kitten home, I bathed her and vaccinated her. It went well considering she had not been given any dinner the night before or breakfast that morning. Some cats like water, some don't. She didn't.
At the appointed time, the new owner arrived with a wicker cat carrier looped over one arm. The carrier was quite fancy, and was even furnished with a plush purple velvet pad. In the woman's hand I saw a tiny black velvet box. The kind that very expensive jewelry come in. I was curious but said nothing as we exchanged niceties about the weather.
I then presented her with her new kitten. She bubbled with joy and busted with pride, every thing seemed to be going well.... until she handed the kitten back to me and said "I'd like you to do one more thing for me dear." She paused and flashed a big warm smile "I'd like you to pierce little Mona's right ear and put this diamond earring in it."
With that she flipped open the lid of the mysterious little black box to revel what appeared to be a 1/2 karat stud diamond earring, nestled deep in a silk lining. The sun danced off it and nearly blinded me. I giggled at what I thought was a joke.
"Excuse me?" I asked "You are not serious are you?" She looked at me like I was the village idiot and quipped "Of Course I'm serious!" I studied her face for signs of a joke, but saw none. She was dead on serious.
"Oh, well" I stammered "I think that is a job for your vet, I've never done anything like that before."
"Don't be silly dear" she retorted, "I've done it a thousand times, just take the end of your syringe needle and poke a little hole, clean it with alcohol and pop the earring in...simple!"
Well ok. I'm thinking ' If you've done it a thousand times why don't you do it now. Instead I said, "No seriously, I'm not comfortable with doing this."
She raised her eyebrows and said "There is nothing to it, I'd do it but look at my hands!" I looked at her hands, and saw they were bent with arthritis. My heart softened a bit, but my head kept telling me to run like heck from this deal. The clincher came when she said "If you can't do it then I can't buy Mona!"
That did it. She hit a soft spot, I needed the money. "Alright" I sighed, "But you'll have to walk me though it." She smiled and calmly held the cat while I prepared a fresh needle and sterilized the stud part of the earring with alcohol. When I was ready I took a deep breath and said "Again, I want you to know that I am not a veterinarian. I'm worried about infections and that sort of thing." "Not to worry dear" she smiled "Like I said I've done it a thousand times and I know how to care for healing ears, I won't hold you responsible. Besides nothing can go wrong " (Author's note: remember those words)
I exhaled and said "OK, here we go then, hold her tightly." Her eyes flashed wide open and she said "Oh no..Goodness NO, I couldn't do that! I could never watch you poking a hole in little Mona's ear!"
I crossed my eyes and said "But ..." by then she was halfway out the door "But wait" I called "You said you've done this a thousand times before!" Her voice faded as she fled the room but I heard her say "Good Grief NO! I've never done it to a kitty dear, just children!" My heart stopped beating.
Well, alright, how difficult could it be. (Author's note: remember those words) I had marked a little X where she wanted the piercing done. I mean seriously here. I've given tons of kittens and puppies their vaccinations, how much more difficult could it be to poke one tiny hole in a cats ear.
I think it was about then that the kitten got suspicious. It extended its claws and braced itself on the table. Maybe it was the smell of the alcohol swab that tipped it off. Maybe it was just hungry or maybe it was the smell of my fear...what ever it was, it put the kitten in a guarded sate of mind. Me too.
I gently but firmly grasped the kitten and started to insert the needle. The kitten would have no part of it. She managed to violently squirm out of my grasp. In so doing she tipped over the bottle of alcohol and sent the needle flying.
Plan B: I picked up the bottle of alcohol and placed it on the table, noting that only about 2/3rd was remaining. I opened a new needle and crawled under the table to retrieve the cat. This time I tried a new tactic. I wedged the kitten carefully against the wall with one arm to give me a little better control. No good. The minute she felt the first light prick of the needle she was airborne. The momentum sent the alcohol thudding once again to the floor. The needle however found a new resting place...in my finger.
I called to the owner for assistance but she waved me off and said "You can do it."
Plan C: I picked up the now half empty bottle of alcohol, put a Band-aid on my finger, got another new needle, and looked under the table for the kitten. She was gone. I crawled around on my hands and knees softly calling the traditional "here kitty kitty, here sweet little kitty" but she was nowhere to be seen. How could a person lose a kitten? Well, of course a person couldn't and I eventually found her.
My new plan was to sit in a chair and firmly but gently hold the kitten between my knees giving me use of both hands. Amazingly that plan did work. The needle went nicely into the cats ear at precisely the same time the the cats teeth went into my left knee. It was painful, but at least I was still holding on to her so things were looking up. I ignored the blood running down my leg.
The rest would be easy. All I had to do was pull the needle out, swab the ear again and insert the diamond stud. The kitten didn't seem to be in any pain, she just seemed down-right mad. None-the-less, I was able to take her by the nape of the neck and place her on the table. Next, tried to sooth her a bit before taking the next step.
After a brief calming period for both of us, I reached for the diamond stud. To my horror there was nothing there but an empty black box. The big beautiful and very expensive diamond earring was gone. I broke into a sweat. I felt dizzy and nauseous.
I didn't want to put the kitten down because she still had the needle dangling in her ear, and I didn't want to let the new owner know the diamond was missing. I knew I was in some pretty serious trouble here. Dollar signs began to dance in my eyes as I thought about having to replace the diamond earring..maybe it was just the squiggles that come prior to a fierce migraine. It doesn't matter which, the point is I was seeing stars because I was in a total panic. I did what a lot of women do when they are in total panic. I cried.
I dropped to my knees feeling around with my left hand while dangling the kitten from my right hand. For a fleeting moment I considered carrying the kitten in my mouth the way mother cats do so I could have both hands free to feel around for the earring. I quickly dismissed the idea however, when I remembered the needle dangling from the cats ear. I know lip piercing is in style, but it's just not me.
I think I understand what people mean when they say they were in a blind panic. Nervous sweat was rolling down my forehead, and into my eyes causing me to blink wildly. What a sight it must have been.
Just then my neighbor came in the back door, took one look at me and barked "What in god's name are you doing woman ?" As I explained through my Lucille Ball like sobs, she tossed me a towel, took the kitten, and in a flash spotted the earring on the floor. With her help sweet little Mona soon had her earring in place and was riding down the driveway in the front seat of her new owners car. I waved weakly and pulled out three more Band-aids for my bleeding knee.
Later as I sat and sipped coffee with the neighbor. We considered opening a cat ear-piercing parlor. Who knows it could be a multi-million dollar business...minus the expense of Band-aids.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Catnipped Birds
Like other typical ranches, we keep a few cats around . While I find them to be totally useless in protecting me from skunks, I have to admit they do a great job keeping the rodent, gopher, mole and lizard population in check. Their rotund bodies attest to their hunting skills.
I very much like cats, but I have mixed feelings about them because I also raise birds. We have several large outdoor pens that house a variety of birds. We also have a large building about the size of a double car garage that houses some of the more delicate birds. Now I know it's a cats natural instinct to hunt birds as well as rodents and lizards, but I've been very fortunate in that my cats don't seem to bother the birds. Or at least they didn't until yesterday.
Here, to the best of my recollection, is what happened: I periodically spray my birds with pesticide to prevent creepy crawly things from taking up residence on them. Since I have so many birds, I purchase a large quart bottle of pesticide, dilute it to the proper strength then pour it into a small spray bottle for application.
After mixing the pesticide yesterday I couldn't find the little spray bottle I normally use, so I looked around and eventually found another one . I flushed it out several times with water and then added the pesticide. As I was about to begin spraying the birds, a friend dropped by and I was side-tracked with her visit for about half an hour.
When I returned to the bird room to pick up where I left off, the little spray bottle of pesticide wasn't where I thought I had left it. After a few minutes of hunting, I located it and sprayed all the birds.
About that time one of the cats walked by outside the bird room, and I was struck with the brilliant idea that I should also check them for fleas and tick. This is something normally I do on a regular basis and since I was already in an anti-pest mood, the timing seemed right. There is a small multi-purpose utility table in the bird room, that I use for...well, multi-purposes. When I check the cats, I customarily squirt a little catnip on the table and on one of their toys then bring the cats in one at a time and look them over.
Yesterday I followed my usual routine. The first cat up was Gracie. She is a very docile cat and I've never seen her go after any birds, not even the wild ones. I picked her up and set her on the table. Now normally she sniffs the catnip toy and rolls over so I can easily examine her. However yesterday something strange was afoot, because she had no interest in the table, or the toy. Her interest seemed to lie in the caged birds. I had an awful time controlling her long enough to complete my examination.
I didn't think too much of it, I figured I had caught her at a bad time and she wasn't in the mood to be checked. I released her outside and grabbed another cat, Solo. Now Solo can be a handful at times, but generally the catnip distracts her long enough for me to look her over. Yesterday she was more than a handful, she was pretty much down-right ballistic. I couldn't control her at all. She kept squirming away from me, leaping off the table and launching herself at the bird cages. After several attempts that were thwarted by me, she successfully managed d to attached herself to one of the cages with such intensity that I had to literally pry one claw off at a time.
She kept stretching her paws though the cage wire in an attempt to snare one of the birds. I was trying to hold her with with my left arm wrapped under her front legs and my left hand on one of her legs. With my other hand I tried unsuccessfully to pry her claws lose. My two hands were no match for her skilled four paws. The more the birds fluttered the more intense she became. He eyes were dilated and her breath hot. I've never seen such intense determination.
Fortunately, by some amazing miracle I was finally able to wrestle her off the cage and manipulate her writhing body out the door. Unfortunately the minute the door was open Gracie bolted back in and in one amazing acrobatic leap crashed into one of the bird cages and pulled it over. As I turned to see what had happened Solo pushed back past me and executed a similar move.
I knew I had to stop the insanity fast or I'd lose some birds. I glanced quickly around for something to distract the cats with. The only thing I spotted that might work for cat riot control was the bottle of pesticide. I grabbed it and sprayed it in the general direction of both cats.
Amazingly they both stopped dead in their tracks and focused on me with large glassy eyes. It was like something out of a Stephen King Movie. For a fleeting moment, fear crept into me as I imagined my own cats to be demon possessed! None-the-less, I bravely took advantage of the momentary pause in their insanity. Very calmly and carefully I lifted the cats off the cages by the nape of their neck and dropped them outside. I swear they both were grinning.
As I turned to survey the damage and check for injured birds (which I am happy to report there were none) the cats began emitting long mournful wales. I very slowly turned around and saw them both hanging by their claws on the outside of the screen door. Scary!
I was totally baffled, until I started to clean up the mess. It was then that I realized that after my friend's visit I had inadvertently switched bottles. I had sprayed the birds with catnip and the table and cat toys with pesticide.
Does anyone know how long it takes for catnip to wear off birds?
I very much like cats, but I have mixed feelings about them because I also raise birds. We have several large outdoor pens that house a variety of birds. We also have a large building about the size of a double car garage that houses some of the more delicate birds. Now I know it's a cats natural instinct to hunt birds as well as rodents and lizards, but I've been very fortunate in that my cats don't seem to bother the birds. Or at least they didn't until yesterday.
Here, to the best of my recollection, is what happened: I periodically spray my birds with pesticide to prevent creepy crawly things from taking up residence on them. Since I have so many birds, I purchase a large quart bottle of pesticide, dilute it to the proper strength then pour it into a small spray bottle for application.
After mixing the pesticide yesterday I couldn't find the little spray bottle I normally use, so I looked around and eventually found another one . I flushed it out several times with water and then added the pesticide. As I was about to begin spraying the birds, a friend dropped by and I was side-tracked with her visit for about half an hour.
When I returned to the bird room to pick up where I left off, the little spray bottle of pesticide wasn't where I thought I had left it. After a few minutes of hunting, I located it and sprayed all the birds.
About that time one of the cats walked by outside the bird room, and I was struck with the brilliant idea that I should also check them for fleas and tick. This is something normally I do on a regular basis and since I was already in an anti-pest mood, the timing seemed right. There is a small multi-purpose utility table in the bird room, that I use for...well, multi-purposes. When I check the cats, I customarily squirt a little catnip on the table and on one of their toys then bring the cats in one at a time and look them over.
Yesterday I followed my usual routine. The first cat up was Gracie. She is a very docile cat and I've never seen her go after any birds, not even the wild ones. I picked her up and set her on the table. Now normally she sniffs the catnip toy and rolls over so I can easily examine her. However yesterday something strange was afoot, because she had no interest in the table, or the toy. Her interest seemed to lie in the caged birds. I had an awful time controlling her long enough to complete my examination.
I didn't think too much of it, I figured I had caught her at a bad time and she wasn't in the mood to be checked. I released her outside and grabbed another cat, Solo. Now Solo can be a handful at times, but generally the catnip distracts her long enough for me to look her over. Yesterday she was more than a handful, she was pretty much down-right ballistic. I couldn't control her at all. She kept squirming away from me, leaping off the table and launching herself at the bird cages. After several attempts that were thwarted by me, she successfully managed d to attached herself to one of the cages with such intensity that I had to literally pry one claw off at a time.
She kept stretching her paws though the cage wire in an attempt to snare one of the birds. I was trying to hold her with with my left arm wrapped under her front legs and my left hand on one of her legs. With my other hand I tried unsuccessfully to pry her claws lose. My two hands were no match for her skilled four paws. The more the birds fluttered the more intense she became. He eyes were dilated and her breath hot. I've never seen such intense determination.
Fortunately, by some amazing miracle I was finally able to wrestle her off the cage and manipulate her writhing body out the door. Unfortunately the minute the door was open Gracie bolted back in and in one amazing acrobatic leap crashed into one of the bird cages and pulled it over. As I turned to see what had happened Solo pushed back past me and executed a similar move.
I knew I had to stop the insanity fast or I'd lose some birds. I glanced quickly around for something to distract the cats with. The only thing I spotted that might work for cat riot control was the bottle of pesticide. I grabbed it and sprayed it in the general direction of both cats.
Amazingly they both stopped dead in their tracks and focused on me with large glassy eyes. It was like something out of a Stephen King Movie. For a fleeting moment, fear crept into me as I imagined my own cats to be demon possessed! None-the-less, I bravely took advantage of the momentary pause in their insanity. Very calmly and carefully I lifted the cats off the cages by the nape of their neck and dropped them outside. I swear they both were grinning.
As I turned to survey the damage and check for injured birds (which I am happy to report there were none) the cats began emitting long mournful wales. I very slowly turned around and saw them both hanging by their claws on the outside of the screen door. Scary!
I was totally baffled, until I started to clean up the mess. It was then that I realized that after my friend's visit I had inadvertently switched bottles. I had sprayed the birds with catnip and the table and cat toys with pesticide.
Does anyone know how long it takes for catnip to wear off birds?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
What I Didn't Need to Know About Skunks
It's always good to know as much about your enemy as you can, so I consulted old Trapper John who gave me a brief rundown on the life and times of skunks. Now Trapper John is a good guy and I really wanted to believe him, but what he was telling me sounded a bit bizarre. Since he had toyed and joked with me in the past I decided to take a run to the local library to double check facts. Now I wish I hadn't.
You see the truth of the matter is that skunks have a territory of about one and a half to two miles that they roam in the spring and summer months. That part is ok, I would very much appreciate it if they stayed that far away from me. Apparently, from March to November (time approx. in our area) they live in small "families" which usually consist of one male and a little harem of one or two females. That's fine, to each his own, live and let live and all that.
However there is more, and this is where things get very interesting; In the winter they resort to communal living. They live in ancient established burrows that are 4 to 6 feet deep and anywhere from 6 to 20 feet long. Often 20 to 40 skunks will pack together and winter over for warmth, protection and ....well, romantic interludes.
In the spring anywhere from 8 to 10 babies are born to every female down in that cozy commune. When spring comes, they are supposed to wander off into the woods to enjoy their "family" lives as mentioned above. If they would just do that, things wouldn't be to bad around here. Regrettably, in my case they wander around the ranch stealing chicken eggs and attacking chickens in the dead of the night, and spraying me. That tends to rile me a bit. When winter comes they snuggle back in the same established warm winter den to sleep and have their romantic interludes and the cycle goes on and on, and apparently on and on some more, generation after generation. (Do you have a calculator?)
So now I know what I have to deal with. I don't have one skunk, I have a whole territorial army of them that wander in droves around the ranch at night. Apparently this ranch has been blessed with very romantically inclined skunks who have established an ancestral den under the chicken shed. Who knows how many decades its been there!
I'm worried, and rightly so. What if I go out some night and they surround me. If the spray from one skunk is noxious what would the spray from 8 or 10 skunks do? I pretty sure it could be fatal. The local newspaper headlines would read "Local woman dies from overdose of skunk inhalation" How embarrassing!
On the other hand I also read that they are timid and shy and generally peace loving little commune dwellers. That helps somewhat, I'm trying to think of them as displaced "hippies" from the 60's and 70's. When you think about it, their little white stripe does look a bit like a "hippie" headband of sorts.
I wonder if I get down on my hands and knees and look under the chicken shed if I would see a bunch of miniature dilapidated V.W. vans with peace symbols and psychedelic flowers painted on them. Do they sit cross legged and strum tiny dulcimers? Do they name their children "Golden Leaf" and "Puffy Cloud?" It's all really very interesting, in a scary kind of way.
Anyway, back to a few more interesting facts. Apparently skunks are members of the weasel family (that figures.) Their Latin name is Mephits, which means noxious gas. (No kidding? What brilliant ancient scholar came up with that name?)
Now for the little detail that sent me scampering to my dresser to check out my perfume bottles. Believe it or not, skunk oil is somehow de-scented and then used in manufacturing the very most expensive perfumes. Yah, that one made my head spin too. Apparently sunk oil has the best holding/staying power of any oil in the universe . I can vouch for that one first hand. Take my word for it skunk oil last and lasts for a very long time. Thank god for the Anti-Icky-Poo company!
The last tid-bit of information I picked up, is that apparently skunk meat is very tasty. You will never get a personal testimony out of me on that one. I don't have even the slightest inclination to taste skunk meat. Which brings me to a curious question: Who was brave enough or desperate enough to be the first to even think about eating one? Maybe it was the brilliant ancient scholar who named them noxious gas? Seriously, if you are serving skunk for dinner tonight, please do not invite me over.
You see the truth of the matter is that skunks have a territory of about one and a half to two miles that they roam in the spring and summer months. That part is ok, I would very much appreciate it if they stayed that far away from me. Apparently, from March to November (time approx. in our area) they live in small "families" which usually consist of one male and a little harem of one or two females. That's fine, to each his own, live and let live and all that.
However there is more, and this is where things get very interesting; In the winter they resort to communal living. They live in ancient established burrows that are 4 to 6 feet deep and anywhere from 6 to 20 feet long. Often 20 to 40 skunks will pack together and winter over for warmth, protection and ....well, romantic interludes.
In the spring anywhere from 8 to 10 babies are born to every female down in that cozy commune. When spring comes, they are supposed to wander off into the woods to enjoy their "family" lives as mentioned above. If they would just do that, things wouldn't be to bad around here. Regrettably, in my case they wander around the ranch stealing chicken eggs and attacking chickens in the dead of the night, and spraying me. That tends to rile me a bit. When winter comes they snuggle back in the same established warm winter den to sleep and have their romantic interludes and the cycle goes on and on, and apparently on and on some more, generation after generation. (Do you have a calculator?)
So now I know what I have to deal with. I don't have one skunk, I have a whole territorial army of them that wander in droves around the ranch at night. Apparently this ranch has been blessed with very romantically inclined skunks who have established an ancestral den under the chicken shed. Who knows how many decades its been there!
I'm worried, and rightly so. What if I go out some night and they surround me. If the spray from one skunk is noxious what would the spray from 8 or 10 skunks do? I pretty sure it could be fatal. The local newspaper headlines would read "Local woman dies from overdose of skunk inhalation" How embarrassing!
On the other hand I also read that they are timid and shy and generally peace loving little commune dwellers. That helps somewhat, I'm trying to think of them as displaced "hippies" from the 60's and 70's. When you think about it, their little white stripe does look a bit like a "hippie" headband of sorts.
I wonder if I get down on my hands and knees and look under the chicken shed if I would see a bunch of miniature dilapidated V.W. vans with peace symbols and psychedelic flowers painted on them. Do they sit cross legged and strum tiny dulcimers? Do they name their children "Golden Leaf" and "Puffy Cloud?" It's all really very interesting, in a scary kind of way.
Anyway, back to a few more interesting facts. Apparently skunks are members of the weasel family (that figures.) Their Latin name is Mephits, which means noxious gas. (No kidding? What brilliant ancient scholar came up with that name?)
Now for the little detail that sent me scampering to my dresser to check out my perfume bottles. Believe it or not, skunk oil is somehow de-scented and then used in manufacturing the very most expensive perfumes. Yah, that one made my head spin too. Apparently sunk oil has the best holding/staying power of any oil in the universe . I can vouch for that one first hand. Take my word for it skunk oil last and lasts for a very long time. Thank god for the Anti-Icky-Poo company!
The last tid-bit of information I picked up, is that apparently skunk meat is very tasty. You will never get a personal testimony out of me on that one. I don't have even the slightest inclination to taste skunk meat. Which brings me to a curious question: Who was brave enough or desperate enough to be the first to even think about eating one? Maybe it was the brilliant ancient scholar who named them noxious gas? Seriously, if you are serving skunk for dinner tonight, please do not invite me over.
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