Round two goes to the possum!

It was cold this morning in my possum blind.  Well, it wasn't really a blind...I just hid behind a tree while my breath steamed in front of me and Momma Kitty sat at my feet.  B-Man and 'Stache were preening in the sunshine, White Kitty and Callie Cat were safely up in the woods catching some early morning rays,  and I had an absolutely immaculate field of vision.  Someone across the river had a wood fire going so an oaky aroma mingled nicely with the crisp tang of the morning air.  From the next farm, a dog barked four times and then quieted.

Guess what?  No possum.  Not a sign of him, not a sound of him, not a scent of him, although I wouldn't have a clue what he smells like.  So it was me, Mamma Kitty, and my trusty .22 lever action, aka "critter gun."  The cold was relentless, so I finally had to prop the gun against the tree and bury my hands in my pockets to relieve the numbness.

Look.  Let me set the record straight.  I don't really want to kill that creature.  As ugly and as menacing as he is, as I've said before, he was born into his fate.  He gets hungry just like my cats do.  Just like I do.  Just like you do.  And he definitely knows I'm around because he's had more than one bullet whiz past his pointy little head.  So he's being ultra cautious.  I've observed him peeking around corners and glancing over his fat possum shoulder as he waddles along.

But the fact of the matter remains: he's a threat.

Though I may be exaggerating that a little because the last time I saw him he was chowing down in the big barn with all four of those cats in attendance, with their attitudes varying between mild curiosity and bored acceptance.  It appears that they may not challenge him and he may not challenge them.  For all I know, they may be sharing tree climbing tips and the cats may be ratting me out for what an easy touch I am.

Of course, that kind of thinking makes it even more difficult.  Plus the thought that once I've dispatched him to the Land of Smithereens, there are most certainly more to follow.  And just how many dead and mangled possums does it take before a fellow gives in to marsupial bloodlust?  At what point do I set straight up in bed in the middle of the night due to a sudden and acute craving to blast a possum?

So let's just say that today I'm conflicted.  My head may be clearer tomorrow and the possibilities range from permanent amnesty to inviting more shooters over to help seal the deal.  Where will my head be when the sun rises on tomorrow?

I don't know.  I really don't.

Stalking the elusive O'

I'm not a killer.  Those of you who know me understand that I would go to great lengths not to take a life.  But there are exceptions to everything and two of those exceptions are possums and skunks.  When you have cats on a farm and you feed those cats, the feeding places become critter magnets.  I'm guessing that Purina Cat Chow is the caviar of the o'possum world and a skunk (or a raccoon) isn't going to be any pickier than a possum around fine dining.  I've been somewhat successful in ridding the farm of these poor, unfortunate souls over the past few years.  I always say it's not their fault as to what body they were born into and that they are simply being what they are.  At that level, it makes it pretty tough for me to take their lives, but I can rationalize in my knowledge that any of them could do serious bodily harm to the cats, and, in the past, that has happened.  Sometimes the course that Nature takes is the course that we personally facilitate.

That leads me to this morning.  I've been stalking a particularly large o'possum for the past couple or three weeks.  He's huge, and, up close, very menacing.  Eyes like malevolent black pearls and teeth like hacksaw blades.  And possibly the ugliest tail God ever put on a living creature, though I did see much more than I wanted to of a pretty good challenger in Walmart this past weekend.

Mr. Possum and I have come face to face several times and he's managed to scoot under the nearest barn wall or quick-waddle into the woods before I could get my gun.  When I'm armed, he's had the most amazing luck.  Two incidences of my rifle jamming and one incident of not knowing there were no bullets in the magazine.  And at least three separate shots that were off target.

This morning, I walked upon him in the barn and I was unarmed.  I looked at him and he looked at me and I could almost see the cartoon bubble above his head that said, "Oh, crap!"  He scurried safely beneath the corn crib.  But I knew his habits so I retrieved my rifle and set up in another barn and waited for him to come out into the open.  I knew exactly where my cats were, so there was no chance of killing one of them with a bad shot, something that had nearly happened earlier in the week.

As I stood there beneath a flawless blue sky, I was taken with the absolute beauty of the morning, and while I waited to shed marsupial blood, a poem cozied itself up inside my head and I tapped it out on my iPhone as I kept my eyes peeled for my quarry.  I call it:

A Ode to an O'possum on a brisk late February Morning

Quiet
Save the cawing of a crow
Light
Laying late morning shadow
Air
Awaiting the thaw of the sun
Me
Universally joined as one
Gun
Locked and loaded with shell
Soon
I'll blow that possum to hell.

0227JDG2014

P.S.  He never showed his pointy, little snout.  The dance continues!

You know the drill

Very short check-in today with something you might try.  If you have a fear of going to the dentist and want to overcome that fear, go to a periodontist.  After that visit, going to the dentist will feel like a stroll down Main Street in Disney World with Mickey and Goofy.  With Snow White in a sheer negligee waiting for you in the castle bedroom.  Or in the case of you ladies, Prince Charming in a thong.

My gawd!

Process Improvement for Smokers

Yep...he's doing it again.  Writing about smoking.  But before anyone jumps to any filtered conclusions, let me say that I write this with nothing but heartfelt sincerity and the wish to make the world a better place for both smokers and non-smokers.  If this process is engineered properly, it has the propensity to save smokers a ton of money, have a positive impact on the environment, reduce taxes for all citizens, as well as promote camaraderie amongst comrades.   And, quite frankly, if all of this is accomplished, ending world hunger can't be far behind.

For lack of a better term, and I'm wide open for suggestions here, I call it Passing the Butt.  The actual process is very simple:  almost as simple as smoking itself.  It's so simple, simpletons can excel at it.

Here's the way it works.  We all know that smokers like to prepare for everything that happens, greet all occasions, and meet all demands by...well...smoking.  When a smoker goes somewhere, anywhere, it's pretty darn important to light up as you exit your car and head for wherever you're going at the time.  And you generally have to double or triple-puff in order to get as much "good" out the cigarette as you can.  Before you have to put it out to go inside.

My research reveals that there are at least three leading venues for this activity:  Walmart, Goodwill, and any restaurant.  Now here's part two, and this is as noteworthy as part one.  After the activity (shopping, browsing, eating) is over, just as soon as smokers step foot outside a structure, they have to light up...hopefully before the door closes behind them.  Highly tenured smokers are slapping a cigarette from the pack and digging out their lighter as they head toward the exit.  Once there, it's pure ballet to watch them exit with cigarette in lips and bring the lighter up in a very fluid motion, just as the automatic doors are opening.  If the building doesn't have automatic doors, the truly talented can shoulder the door open and light the smoke at the same time.

Now, here's the beauty to my process.  Here's the artistic side of Passing the Butt.  You've got to know that there are a ton of perfectly good cigarettes wasted between the car and Walmart and Walmart and the car.  Or prior to supper at the buffet or just after your buffet supper.  No matter how hard and fast you puff, you barely get half the cig smoked before you have to put it out.  I've seen folks' eyes bugging out as they try to suck that cigarette dry before having to drop it in the used cigarette bucket.  Well...don't do that anymore!  Pass it off!  Pass your butt off!

Here's how it works.  There will be designated areas in most public places where arriving smokers and departing smokers will converge.  Think in terms of those little sheds at airport parking lots, where people wait for the shuttle to the terminal.  (I try so hard not to use the word terminal when I'm writing about smoking, but sometimes you can't avoid it.)  Let's take the Walmart parking lot, for example.  When you arrive at Walmart, don't get out of you car and light up.  Instead, head directly for the Passing the Butt kiosk.  If there's not already somebody there trying to suck the life out of a cigarette before they get to their car, there soon will be.  Now...are you ready?...that person will pass their half smoked or quarter smoked cigarette off to an arriving smoker.  The departing smoker now feels much better about having not "wasted" a cigarette, and the arriving smoker doesn't have to light up a new one only to have to extinguish it in a matter of seconds.  Ching, ching!

Of course, the arriving smoker gets much more advantage from the process at that point, but guess what?  As soon as the arriving smoker finishes shopping or eating or checking prices at Goodwill, he or she becomes a departing smoker, and they get to pay it forward to some other arriving smoker!  Beautiful in its simplicity and simple in its beauty, is it not?

Of course, I understand there are glitches.  First of all, you can't be concerned about catching some bug or disease from sharing your butt.  But I figure if you're a smoker, your health is one of the last things on your mind.  Secondly, you have to be flexible.  If you're a menthol smoker, occasionally you'll need to go non-menthol.  And vice versa.  Also, there will be a few roll-your-owns in the process, so get ready for a product not quite as perfect as those mass produced cigs.  If lipstick on the filter bothers you, then men may want to wait for other men instead of bumming a butt off a woman.  After some time spent operating within the confines of this process, I think all these little secondary concerns give way to the larger good.  Don't you?  And I'm going to bet that this is going to be an excellent way to meet new people.

So there you have it.  If you've got process improvements, let me know.  This is, after all, something brand new and I would expect to run into unforeseen issues.  But, hey, that's half the fun:  smoking out the problems.  There are no ifs, ands, and butts about it. Pass the Butt is definitely going to be the Next Big Thing.

Google, google, tweet, tweet

When I was Googling this morning, I decided to coffee and toast.  Upon toasting, I found that I would like to jam as well.  Since we were out of jam, I jellied. As I was coffeeing and toasting and jellying, I wondered about the homo sapiens' love affair with turning nouns into verbs.  And why we choose to discriminate and give some social networking entities their own verb (Twitter), others no choice but to verbalize the noun (Google), and still others neither or, perhaps both (Facebook...as in "I'm going to be Facebooking for awhile" or "I can't mop the floor, do a load of wash, and cook your dinner right now because I'm catching up with my Facebook.")

Maybe the big question is:  do we really care?

Probably not.  So instead of blogging this morning, I think I'll go for a jog, which will set me to jogging.  And, with a little dexterity, while I'm jogging, I can tweet, Facebook, and Google.  I may decide to be a rebel and Twitter instead of tweet, basically letting that little activity know that I don't have to recognize its own special little verb and that Twitter needs to get off its high horse.  In fact, though it would be quite a challenge mentally and physically, while I'm jogging I could actually be blogging about tweeting and Googling.  And I could link that to Facebook!

Now that would be something you could write home about.

Momma Kitty

This morning, Momma Kitty and I shared some swing time and sunshine.  Seldom, if ever, can I spend time with her that I don't think back to the day I first spotted her and her kittens.  That was posted in another blog a few years back, so, in honor of Momma Kitty, who is one stalwart feline, I want to re-blog those two posts here.

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Trunk Kittens - Part I

Country roads tend to bring the best and the worst out in people. A late June day in 2006 characterized that. Geri and I were leaving the farm after a relaxing afternoon of enjoying the pastures, woods, and river and had traveled only a mile down our country road when we came upon a light colored Camry, parked in the middle of the gravel lane. It was just getting dusky dark and we were in a heavily shaded area, so detail was difficult. However, we could see one person in the passenger seat while the driver, an older man with longer, tussled grey hair, was heaving items from the trunk onto the roadside. It isn't unusual to see garbage suddenly appear on the side of a country road. Tons of people out there breathing our air believe burdening the pristine countryside with their empty milk cartons, eggshells, and cigarette butts is perfectly acceptable. It's unusual to catch someone in the act, however, and we prepared ourselves to invite them to retrieve their garbage and be on their way. Funny thing though: as soon as what the man was heaving from the trunk landed on the roadside, it rolled, shook, and scampered off into the overgrowth. We saw the last of the kittens and the mother cat being tossed out unceremoniously just as the piece of worthless nothing spotted us. He hurried back to the drivers side, opened the door, and sped off in a spattering of gravel and a storm of dust. From the edge of the woods, we spied one little kitten head which quickly turned and disappeared into the brush and bushes. Geri and I could only stare at each other speechless. Did we really just see some lousy excuse for a human being slinging kittens from the trunk of a car? Is this how all these poor animals end up on country roads to starve to death, die of thirst, or the victims of the teeth and claws of coyotes? How we wished that what was being dumped was the remnants of a McDonald's Deluxe number three or last weeks pile of newspapers. We searched for the little fellows but the dark was coming quickly and we had no choice but to head home and ponder the fate of the trunk kittens.

Heading for the farm the following morning, the kittens weighed heavily on our minds and we decided we would spend some time looking for them. Well, we didn't have to try to find them. They found us. Sitting by the side of the country road were two kittens. Waiting. Waiting for us we now assume. If they'd had thumbs, they would have been hitchhikers the way they sat there so bravely, fear and anticipation swapping in and out of their little eyes. We pulled over and they drew back a bit. When I looked up the bank and through the thick undergrowth, I spotted the momma. And with the momma, one more kitten hanging close and shadowing momma's every move. The little hitchhikers were bullseye tabbies, one darker than the other but identical other than the coloring. The little gal with her momma was solid grey. Geri and I knew we had one chance to try to catch and save this little discarded family.

Always planning for strays, we had a cat cage and cat food in the 4Runner. We opened several cans and put them on the side of the road. The two hitchhikers had retreated and now Momma Kitty and the three kittens were all just out of reach up the bank off the road, scampering between bushes and hiding in thick weeds. Eventually, the aroma of breakfast won over and all four little ones (Momma Kitty was barely out of kittenhood herself) came creeping toward the food. It all happened so fast that I don't recall the details, but within a few minutes we had Momma and the three kittens in the cage. They weren't very happy about it, but they were so hot, sick, tired, and hungry, they had no fight left. Looking at them it was obvious that their life before being slung from the trunk of a car wasn't much better than being abandoned in the hot countryside. They were so skinny and sick, they opened their mouths to mew, but no sound came forth.

We brought them home. Momma, a little boy and two little girls. The little boy was the worst off...he didn't have the energy to eat. We soon discovered why. We took them to the basement and one by one took them from the cage and began to wash them. The rinse water that came off them was somewhere between brown and dark red. Hundreds of fat, full fleas flowed from their coats and down the drain. Their bodies were covered in little blood red bites. They weren't pleased about the bath, but they could muster no fight. It was a Sunday and no vet access, so we studied how we would care for them until we could get them evaluated. For now one cage would have to be their home until we knew the next step to take. So after providing food and water (the little boy had to be force-fed), we put clean towels and a litter box in the cage and they rested easy for perhaps the first time in their lives. (To be continued...)

Trunk Kittens - Part II

I haven't really thought about it until now, but I suppose the trunk kittens and their momma must have had a little deja vu when we carried their cage and put it in the back of the SUV. Little did they know that this trip was going to be a good trip, much different than the several miles in stifling heat in the trunk of the monster people's Camry a couple of days earlier. When the vet finished her examination, Geri and I learned that the kittens and momma had everything possible wrong: worms, ear infections, URI, eye infections, and anemia from the flea bites. The good news was that they had neither FIV nor feline leukemia. Armed with a dozen bottles and some eyedroppers, we took them home and we began to nurse them. The momma and the two girls responded well. Depression gripped the little boy and he was the hardest to medicate and food had to be forced down his throat. By then I had constructed a three cage kitty condo - three separate cages connected for plenty of room. A bathroom, a bedroom, and a den/kitchen combo.

The little boy would situate himself in the middle cage, the den, and often refuse to nurse his mother. I worried about him but I knew that if he could shake his depression - and maybe the memory of being slung in a ditch like a bag of garbage - he would be okay.

One of the little females was a girly-girl and the other was a blatant tomboy. In the mornings we would go into the basement and check on them, and, for the longest time, I anticipated the little boy would be a goner.

Rocky needing Prozac

But time, medicine, and tender loving care all paid off and in a few weeks they turned into healthy happy critters. It was time to name them and thus Momma Kitty, Gracie (the girly girl), Tiger (the aggressive tomboy), and Rocky (the little fellow who wanted to quit but never did) joined the Gray family. Today, Momma Kitty lives on the farm with the farm cats (a future blog), and the three kittens live the good life downstairs (away from their doggie brother and sister and in their own eminent domain). Being the protective father, it was a year before I wanted to let them out (what did I know about cats? - I never had one). Plus, face it, I rather enjoyed their company as they helped me prepare for a Sunday School lesson or generally just hung out.

Helping Dad with his research

Chilling in the good life

But Geri finally convinced me to install a cat door. The pics below represent their first moments outdoors (they had viewed it through the window and figured it looked pretty neat). I love the cat door as much as they do, but I have to admit that I'm not always pleased with what they capture and bring in as presents from time to time. You won't believe some of the things they manage to maneuver through that little cat door.

Also, you'll meet Momma Kitty, a hero in my books and as happy as a pig...er a cat in slop out on the farm.

Momma Kitty

Tiger and Rocky discovering the New World

Awe-struck Gracie

Rocky living his pipe dream

Evil Women in Song

I was driving down the road a few days ago and the song "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town," starting playing.  I've always liked the song and could still sing along with the words after all these years.  Somewhere near the end of the song, it occurred to me what an unredeemable excuse for a human being Ruby was.  And that led me to trying to think of a more despicable character in a song...or at least a more despicable woman in a song.  And the only one close to her I could come up with was Lucille, as in "you picked a fine time to leave me Lucille."

Okay.  Let's look at those two songs for a minute.  As fate would have it, they were both performed by Kenny Rogers.  Mel Tillis wrote Ruby, and supposedly, it was based loosely on a true story about a couple he knew in Florida with the soldier actually serving in WWII.  Mel updated the song to the Korean War but it wasn't recorded for the first time until 1967 by Johnny Darrell, so everybody assumed that the "crazy Asian war" was the Vietnam War.

Forget the war stuff...heck, we've been in a constant war with somebody or another since 1941...let's get back to what a full-out loser Ruby was.  Her husband's lost the use his legs fighting in the war, can't leave the house without help, and Ruby can't temper her libido enough to stay home with him and watch Combat or Green Acres on the tube.  Nope, she's got to smear lipstick on as thick as butter and curl her out-of-the-box blonde hair.  (Could have been red or brunette, but I'm betting the little floozy was a bleach blonde.)  And does she just leave?  Nope...no way.  She slams the door on the way out.  As he plots her violent demise.

Kenny Rogers and the First Edition recorded the song in 1969.  It hit number 39 on the country charts but did much better on the Hot 100, topping out at #6.

Let's take a look at Lucille, the first runner up.  This became the first song recorded by Rogers as a solo artist and it reached number one on the country charts in 1977, also hitting number 5 on the regular charts, proving that nasty acting women in song could sell records.  What was Lucille's thing?  Pretty simple...she hightailed it to a bar in Toledo, Ohio (that in itself should be evidence enough of poor judgement), leaving behind her old man, four hungry children, and a crop in the field.  Not exactly a "Mother of the Year" contender.  Let's look at that again...four hungry children...could she not have at least left something cooked in the freezer that Dad could microwave for dinner?  And how long was she planning on staying?  The husband must have thought for quite a while because he had concerns about the crop in the field.  Appears that Lucille needed to get her cotton-picking butt home, sling on some overalls and work boots, and get to plowing or something.  And she might as well have done that, because the could-have-got-it-if-he-wanted-to cad who took her back to the motel (the husband should have slapped him off the barstool instead of whining about the four snot-nosed brats and the tobacco that needed topping) suddenly got a dose of guilt and couldn't perform anyway.  So it was not a memorable night for anyone.

So how could this all have worked out better for everyone?  Here's the way I would have written it.

Lucille, a bored farmer's wife, decides she needs a night out and chooses to tell her husband that she's going to a Tupperware party in Toledo.  When she leaves, the husband, who's a little on the needy side anyway, notices that she seems to be sprucing up a bit much for a Tupperware party, so he follows a safe distance behind in the rattly old pickup.  When Lucille gets to the seediest bar in south Toledo, she runs upon Ruby, who, in the past couple of months, has already worked her way through about all the rummy derelicts who flock to this sticky floored dive at about noon everyday, and the two of them decide to share a club sandwich with their whiskey sours. Ruby unloads on Lucille about how tough it is to live with a wounded vet, an older man at that, and how she's still up for a little partying and such now and again but all her husband wants to do is sleep and thumb through old editions of "Field and Stream."  Lucille tells her that she needs to count her blessings because at least Ruby doesn't have four rug rats running around the house screaming and yelling like a bunch of banshees - wanting this and wanting that - AND a husband who would rather be bush hogging than tush hugging.  Ruby reckons that Lucille has a point there and they decide to have a shot of Jack Daniel's neat and another whiskey sour.  And, by the way Barkeep, do you know how to mix a Singapore Sling?

Lucille's husband, who had lost her trail about halfway between the farm and Toledo finally spots her car in the bar's parking lot, and, about the time he walks in, Ruby and Lucille are shit-faced in the corner and trying to sing "You Light Up My Life" but they can't remember the words.  Mr. Lucille helps them out of the bar, loads them both up in the cab of the truck, and agrees to drive Ruby home.  Just as they are pulling into the subdivision, they spot Mr. Ruby wheeling in down the street in his wheelchair with a 20 gauge shotgun propped across his lap.  They pull over, Mr. Lucille and Mr. Ruby have a short conversation out of earshot of the two new BFFs, they unload the shotgun, load the wheelchair in the back of the pickup, and drive home.  Mr. Ruby has ribeyes in the freezer and cold beer in the fridge, so the four of them have a cookout, discover they really enjoy each other's company, and become fast friends.  The VA fits Mr. Ruby with prosthetics, puts him on anti-depressants and he takes a job driving a tractor for Mr. Lucille, who becomes one of the first renown organic farmers in his part of the country. The Rubys, after several unsuccessful attempts to get preggo, become god-parents to the four Lucille brats, all of whom, by the way, grow up to be very productive and successful citizens.  The oldest son in fact, spends 41 years in insurance claims before retiring to a life of blogging.

We lose two pretty good songs but we save two marriages and dodge the following bullets:  a raging STD for Lucille, a foreclosed farm with the parents and four kids on welfare for life, certain violent death for Ruby, and life imprisonment without chance of parole for a decorated war veteran.

Sounds a little bit like a Nicholas Sparks' plot.  Maybe he'll read the blog.