The War on Strays
There has been an escalation in the War on strays. No longer am I content with my latest plan to capture the feline rascals and mail them off to Steve Harper and his Foster family for cats... Simply put, their latest attack has put me over the edge, and military intervention is the ultimate and final solution.
Saturday was my wife's birthday BBQ which was a smashing success. I know it was because she had fun, and I had a radiation surge goign on inside my head all day sunday. She was awoken at some time after 3 am (I don't know because I was out cold by then) to the sound of wild animals scrapping. We actually have several chipmunks that run around our back yard and the neighbourhood, and they are both fun and pleasant to have around, but this sounded bad.
Sunday morning, I woke with a pounding headache and listened to her talking on the phone about the chipmunk dying on our back pad. Eventually, with a maximum effort, I got out of bed, made a coffee and decided something had to be done about this. The chipmunk was lying in the sun, to all outward appearances, he seemed dead as a doorknob. The eery thing was his lack of hair except around his head and feet. He had a badly mauled leg and puncture wounds all over his hairless body. However, he was not dead yet...
I didn't relish the thought of having to put Ralf (his name) out of his misery, but I couldn't handle watching him try to raise his head and squeak. I got a spade from the shed and after a quick prayer, I whacked him on the head. Of course, he didn't die, but began writhing around a little. it took about 6 whacks before he finally stopped moving, and I felt like crap. After all, we have spent countless nights around our new fire and in the yard, with the chipmunks running along the fence and trees... chirping at us and squeaking away.
I dug a hole in the back and buried Ralf. I vowed to deal with the cats, one way, or another. I now have a pellet gun.