We've decided that Davey the Raccoon must go, and go now. The Mister said I should just call Animal Control, but I was adamant that another option be found because I was afraid they'd euthanize Davey. This statement convinced my husband that I was a lunatic, which is quite funny because after almost ten years together it's hard to believe he'd require further proof. He assured me that they wouldn't kill Davey, that they'd find a nice happy place for him to frolic and roam. I don't know if he honestly believed that or if he was just trying to placate his insane wife, but I said that I'd find another way anyway, thank you very much. I was certain that the folks in charge of relocating wildlife didn't have the time or resources to drive around in search of Happy Raccoon Land where there's nothing but overflowing trashcans and horny girl raccoons.
I decided to check with a guy from work who wears camo into the office, because obviously anyone who does that would know what I should do. Per his advice, we wrapped a thin metal sheet around the pole that Davey uses to get onto our roof and into his penthouse apartment where he sips Courvoisier and watches wildlife porn. With this metal wrapped around the wooden post he wouldn't be able to get a grip to climb up, and after a little while he'd go find somewhere else to live. It sounded like the perfect solution.
Last night as I headed out of the house for a night of boozing with a bunch of other degenerates I heard the telltale rattle of the trashcan. Gloria the cat was on her way out of the house as well, because apparently she's got better things to do that sit at home on a Wednesday night too. Somehow I managed to get her back into the house by blocking her path outside with my leg, which is surprising because every other time I've tried to do that she's given me a look like "Come on, lady. I can just jump over your foot, you fool. God." Sure enough, right then I saw Davey scramble onto the deck and up the pole. The pole with the metal sheeting around it. The pole that was supposed to be unclimbable. I don't know how, but he managed to hoist that big fat body up to the roof despite the slippery metal band. He's like the fucking Lance Armstrong of raccoons.
Unable to admit defeat, I sat today and thought long and hard about how to make this whole thing work. What would Jack Hanna do? If Marlin Perkins were here, what would he say? Actually, I know what Marlin would say. He'd be sitting in front of the fireplace drinking a whiskey while telling Jim Fowler to go stick his head in that rhino's mouth already, and quit whining about it little nancyboy.
After much consideration I knew what I should do. In the tradition of brilliant naturalists everywhere, I went outside and sprayed that whole freaking metal sheet with Pam. Let that little bitch try to climb it now.
On a related note, if anyone from Mutual of Omaha is reading and would like me to host a new show, my number is listed.
I decided to check with a guy from work who wears camo into the office, because obviously anyone who does that would know what I should do. Per his advice, we wrapped a thin metal sheet around the pole that Davey uses to get onto our roof and into his penthouse apartment where he sips Courvoisier and watches wildlife porn. With this metal wrapped around the wooden post he wouldn't be able to get a grip to climb up, and after a little while he'd go find somewhere else to live. It sounded like the perfect solution.
Last night as I headed out of the house for a night of boozing with a bunch of other degenerates I heard the telltale rattle of the trashcan. Gloria the cat was on her way out of the house as well, because apparently she's got better things to do that sit at home on a Wednesday night too. Somehow I managed to get her back into the house by blocking her path outside with my leg, which is surprising because every other time I've tried to do that she's given me a look like "Come on, lady. I can just jump over your foot, you fool. God." Sure enough, right then I saw Davey scramble onto the deck and up the pole. The pole with the metal sheeting around it. The pole that was supposed to be unclimbable. I don't know how, but he managed to hoist that big fat body up to the roof despite the slippery metal band. He's like the fucking Lance Armstrong of raccoons.
Unable to admit defeat, I sat today and thought long and hard about how to make this whole thing work. What would Jack Hanna do? If Marlin Perkins were here, what would he say? Actually, I know what Marlin would say. He'd be sitting in front of the fireplace drinking a whiskey while telling Jim Fowler to go stick his head in that rhino's mouth already, and quit whining about it little nancyboy.After much consideration I knew what I should do. In the tradition of brilliant naturalists everywhere, I went outside and sprayed that whole freaking metal sheet with Pam. Let that little bitch try to climb it now.
On a related note, if anyone from Mutual of Omaha is reading and would like me to host a new show, my number is listed.
2 Comments:
Please, please, please set up video camera to record this.
Ha!
We got back today from several days out of town, and one of the first things I did was check to see what Davey had been up to. There were a couple paw prints leading to downward smudges, so it would appear that he did some pole-sliding.
Jay, I'll keep my camera ready so that I can capture any shots of racoon bust-ass. And considering the size of his ample butt, the collision of ass-to-deck should be quite substantial indeed.
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