Neither a Hunter nor a Gatherer

I am neither a hunter nor a gatherer. To survive eons ago, a person had to be one or the other.  I live on an old farm, which at first pass would put me square in the field with the gathering group, but living on a farm does not make me a farmer, just as owning a gun does not make me a hunter. However, occasionally I find myself dancing between the two tribes.

I have an understanding with the predators that live in the woods behind my barn: I will not go searching for them in their home (the woods), and they will not come searching my home (the farm) for food and drink. I have no argument with those who hunt and fish; I just have never had an appetite for the activity, only the result. Presently though, I am in a battle with raccoons who have ignored my pleas to stay out of the barn. These masked marauders have no respect for boundaries.

I have been at war with these bandits ever since we moved out here more than two decades ago. They steal eggs and kill chickens. I have no tolerance for either of these hobbies.

I have never studied the ways of an animal in their habitat to learn their habits, but I do recognize their handy work. A fox is greedy; it will kill all the chickens and take them away one by one. A weasel is a barbarian; it will kill one bird after another over a period of days by removing their heads from their bodies. Possums will wander politely around inside the coop; they work the crowd as they try to locate their favorite hors d’oeuvres: eggs. Skunks will take eggs as well, but their tell-tail odor is unmistakable. A coyote will grab something to eat and run away rudely with its mouth full.  One afternoon I even came upon an Osprey who had flown in to enjoy chicken dinner in the barnyard.

Raccoons are unique: they can climb, they are intelligent and they are omnivorous, meaning they will eat almost anything. These past few days something has been eating eggs, a chicken and cat food. I think it tried to catch the cat too judging from the mess left behind – things were tipped over as if a chase had been conducted around the barn once or twice.

One night I relocated the cat to the garage and baited a live trap with cat food. The next morning an angry raccoon was waiting for me. Thinking I had solved my problem I let down my guard, and the next morning I found a similar sight: the cat feeder was emptied and tipped over and the water dish had become a bathtub with much splashing about. That night I set the trap again and the next morning I found it sprung and the animal gone – alive and well certain to return to torment me again.

Now I must gather my wits about me and hunt for a solution if my chickens are to survive and my cat to live in peace.