Over a year and a half ago my flock was hit with repeated raccoon attacks resulting in multiple homicides.  The crime scenes continued to grow in frequency and brutality until I was reduced to less than half the flock I once enjoyed.  Then one night I awoke with a funny feeling in my chest, I decided to slip on some shoes and clutching my nightdress about me, I crept outside with a flashlight in hand.  Shining the somewhat weak beam into the top of a sweetgum tree I saw 4 ghoulish globes beaming back at me.  I backed away, scurried into the house, roused my sleeping husband from his warm nest telling him excitedly ‘Come on, you’ve got to come shoot the coons!  They are in the tree, two of’em!  Hurry up!”.  Knowing the grief those guys had been doling out to his poor wife, he hopped up, pulled on some pajama bottoms and off we went.  He to the 4-wheeler for the .22 and I to the tree, determined to not let the buggers get away.  Mind you it is one o’clock in the morning and I wanted to get the 30-06 or 7mm to blast them to the moon (or at least across the road).  Rob convinced me it was a poor idea to go about shooting high-powered rifles at 1 in the morning, even if we did happen to live in Maydelle, Texas.

He finally got the little bullets in the little gun as I tried to keep the light on the ring-tailed bandits clutching the flimsy top limbs, swaying perilously a mere 10 feet from my sleeping beauties.  “POP!”  miss.  “POP! POP!”  miss.  “POP!” Now you haven’t lived in the country until you have heard a raccoon shriek, hiss and spit in anger, all directed at your very own person.  By the time coon number one made it to the ground I was really wishing I had that big gun for back-up.  He was a mad, fast, furious joker.  We sent him to hell.  All coons go to hell in my opinion.

There was still another giant coon lurking in the tree.  After several hits and misses he followed his buddy into the hereafter.  Only he didn’t follow him out of the tree.  We figured we could shake him out the next day.

Wrong.

We figured the buzzards would carry him off.

Wrong.

After about a week it was clear he had decided to stay and haunt us and the chickens, mocking us with a foul odour and falling fur.  Each time we passed the sweetgum tree he seemed to be grinning and waving a rotting paw at us.  Totally gross.  I told Rob he should have let me shoot them with the big gun and we wouldn’t have had this problem.  About a month ago he started to finally descend, one bone at a time.  Last week I noticed the little skull had made it about 2/3 of the way down.  Yesterday, it was finally over.

Those teeth shall haunt us no more.

The Tree.

So maybe they were more like 20 feet from the top of the coop.  Whatever.  I know where they were headed.

Here is one of the survivors.

Her little gray friend, along with about 20 others, did not fare so well.

I’m so glad I no longer have to worry about the coon falling on my head when I got to check for eggs.  And we fixed the coop so any sharp-toothed, cruel-minded descendents who might think they want a chicken dinner, well.  They are gonna have to go find someone else’s flock to dine upon.

‘Cause my girls are safe.