You're Feeding Them Cat Food?
After a long absence of domestic cats around the house, we are blessed this year with seven almost-grown kittens that have taken up residence in the partially-open garage adjoining our house. They've taken lessons from their wild-as-a-bobcat mother and are very wary of being approached. But Hiromi is patiently wooing them and feeding them regularly and well. This has caused a surprising complication.
Our first brush with the unexpected developments happened one night when Grant carried the day's garbage to the compost pile. A possum had beat him to the scene and scurried away when Grant approached. Later the same evening Joel saw a possum eating from the cat dish in the garage right outside the basement stairway landing. Our ever-eager resident marksman (Grant) was notified, and he readied his ammunition and weapons and waited. Before long, from his bedroom down the hall and around the corner from the garage door, he heard noisy crackling chewing sounds in the garage. He crept out the front door, went around to the front of the garage, and sighted the possum through his rifle scope. That night he bagged his first possum. It was a half-grown one.
Every night after that, he "hunted" possums by listening for noisy chewing while allegedly doing homework in his room. Several nights when he was up late, we were awakened from deep sleep by a gun blazing away in the garage right outside our bedroom window. It was not a good way to wake up.
After the third one we started keeping count.
He shot big fat ones and more of the small, fairly young ones. He switched from going out the front door with his rifle (They heard him too often.) to bursting from the landing into the garage with a 22 caliber pistol. To do this he had to creep sock-footed down the three steps onto the landing, peer ever-so-slyly through a very small slit where the curtain panels met at the enter of the window, silently depress the catch on the storm door latch, and charge through the door into the garage , shooting fast enough to stop the feasting possum before he escaped outside under the garage wall about six feet away. He had to leave the landing light on because that was the only light by which he could see the possum, but this made every movement all-too-visible without taking careful precautions.
The next morning Grant would dispose of whatever possums he had "harvested" the night before.
One night when Grant stayed home from church he shot two possums while the rest of us were gone. He got one more later the same night. Several times he missed his shot or inadvertently scared them off before he had his weapon in hand. But the count grew. We began to think the supply must be nearly unlimited.
All told, Grant shot ten possums within about three weeks. Then either the population was totally decimated or the remaining ones returned to hibernation.
I like having only the intended recipients eat the cat food we buy and put out, but my frugal heart wishes for more. I think it would have been nice if Grant had been able to cash in on the $35.00 that nice possums sell for in Grenada where they are considered a culinary delight. It's a little hard to forget that somewhere out back on this property $350.00 has gone to waste. I'm trying to forget.
Now our cats, though no doubt slightly traumatized by all the noise and carnage they've witnessed, have the garage to themselves again, and Hiromi is back to making endearing noises and gestures as he feeds them.
Our first brush with the unexpected developments happened one night when Grant carried the day's garbage to the compost pile. A possum had beat him to the scene and scurried away when Grant approached. Later the same evening Joel saw a possum eating from the cat dish in the garage right outside the basement stairway landing. Our ever-eager resident marksman (Grant) was notified, and he readied his ammunition and weapons and waited. Before long, from his bedroom down the hall and around the corner from the garage door, he heard noisy crackling chewing sounds in the garage. He crept out the front door, went around to the front of the garage, and sighted the possum through his rifle scope. That night he bagged his first possum. It was a half-grown one.
Every night after that, he "hunted" possums by listening for noisy chewing while allegedly doing homework in his room. Several nights when he was up late, we were awakened from deep sleep by a gun blazing away in the garage right outside our bedroom window. It was not a good way to wake up.
After the third one we started keeping count.
He shot big fat ones and more of the small, fairly young ones. He switched from going out the front door with his rifle (They heard him too often.) to bursting from the landing into the garage with a 22 caliber pistol. To do this he had to creep sock-footed down the three steps onto the landing, peer ever-so-slyly through a very small slit where the curtain panels met at the enter of the window, silently depress the catch on the storm door latch, and charge through the door into the garage , shooting fast enough to stop the feasting possum before he escaped outside under the garage wall about six feet away. He had to leave the landing light on because that was the only light by which he could see the possum, but this made every movement all-too-visible without taking careful precautions.
The next morning Grant would dispose of whatever possums he had "harvested" the night before.
One night when Grant stayed home from church he shot two possums while the rest of us were gone. He got one more later the same night. Several times he missed his shot or inadvertently scared them off before he had his weapon in hand. But the count grew. We began to think the supply must be nearly unlimited.
All told, Grant shot ten possums within about three weeks. Then either the population was totally decimated or the remaining ones returned to hibernation.
I like having only the intended recipients eat the cat food we buy and put out, but my frugal heart wishes for more. I think it would have been nice if Grant had been able to cash in on the $35.00 that nice possums sell for in Grenada where they are considered a culinary delight. It's a little hard to forget that somewhere out back on this property $350.00 has gone to waste. I'm trying to forget.
Now our cats, though no doubt slightly traumatized by all the noise and carnage they've witnessed, have the garage to themselves again, and Hiromi is back to making endearing noises and gestures as he feeds them.
posted by Mrs. I at
3:19 PM
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