The Dreaded Varmint, Day Nine: disappointment

(Missed the rest of this tale?  Well, that’s easy . . . start right here.)

I crept out to the chicken yard before the sun was even up over the horizon the next morning.  I had my camera in one hand, a baseball bat in the other, rings of fatigue under my eyes (still recovering from varmint-induced illness, or trying to), but I couldn’t wait any longer.  What would I find in our new, way-too-big live trap?  A mountain lion, a bobcat, a coyote, a wolf, a passel of raccoons??? What?

Prepare yourselves, Gentle Readers.  I had the biggest (varmint-related, anyway) let-down of all time.  There wasn’t a thing in the freakishly humongous live trap.  Not a house cat.  Not a mouse.  Not a flea (that I could see).  Nada.  Nuthin’.  And four (live) chickens, mavericks all who flap up into trees to roost during the night rather than go into the stinkin’ hot chicken coop with the other hens, calmly clipping off their breakfast grass close by, relaxed.  Uneaten.  Unmauled.  Un-eviscerated.  Still with bones and beaks and wings intact.  You get the picture.

Morning dawning in the East . . . what is in yonder live trap? I would soon find out.

Blessed morning!  Dreaded Varmint! Had he been so discouraged by our diligent, intelligent, savvy efforts, that he had decided to move on to easier prey?  Could he have been a computer nerd who was following this pitiful saga on my blog?  Or had another small farmer in the area blown him away by now? Did he get smashed on the highway only a scant mile from our place? Time would tell, my friends, but this fact remained:  the trap would stay baited.

Oh, yes.  The trap would stay up.

(. . . to be continued! . . .)

 

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