If there's one thing that makes you appreciate a good, ole possum, it's a raucous gang of raccoons. You talk about about wreaking total havoc! A couple of days ago, I left the top off the chest in Mamma Kitty's shed, and a raccoon(s) had methodically opened every pop-top can of cat food and devoured it. Licked the cans shiny clean. Yesterday, a gang of raccoons had managed to undo the clasp on the chest where we keep the food for the "restaurant cats," aka the cats we rescued from the restaurant on the highway in Kelso, and squeeze through the opening they had attained. They took the top off the bucket that holds the dry food but opted to escape to the woods with a super size bag of kitty treats instead of eating the dry food in the bucket. After cleaning up the mess, I thought I had solved the issue by removing the dry food and double-clasping the latch.
Today...well you can see the photo and get the picture. Total destruction. It looked like the remnants of an angry mob scene. How do I know it's raccoons? A few reasons. I've seen the results of their raids before. They are the only animal smart enough to undo a clasp that I have trouble getting off and on. And they left their guilty little footprints in the water bowl.
Both chests were thrown around like in a tornado. One chest was carried a good twenty feet. The two or three cans of wet food were opened with surgical precision and, again, eaten to the shiny bottom of the cans. They tore a few paper towels to shreds (I'm sure they weren't trying to clean their grimy faces) and, inexplicably, stole the rest of the roll. I have no idea where they took it. Or why.
They are nasty. I mean not just nasty acting, but NASTY. Dirty. Stinky. And they will poop a pound for every ounce of food they ingest. And they'll poop it anywhere, everywhere, anytime.
Yeah, you can say all you want about how cute the little masked devils can be, but once you've experienced their nuclear reactor explosion, you definitely will put a possum lower on the list of critters to find a better home for (a euphemism for those of you who believe that death by high powered rifle or shotgun is not an option).
So, here's to Mr. O, the pudgy little slow-moving, dainty eating, leave-no-mess critter. You, my friend, are off the hook. At least for the time being.
For you fast-moving, voracious, filthy, dynamite-in-fur gangsters, the war is on! And I'm bringing the heavy artillery. So lie up in my barn loft this evening and giggle the night away, high five your little paws all you want, plan your next raid and food fight, because, starting tomorrow, you are Public Enemy Number One.
It's on, folks. It's on.