Repeat after me: "I have not gone nutty like a squacoon"

October 16, 2006 | Category: Family, It's a Trip

As we continue to seek a new job for CD and scrounge up money on my own 2.5 "free" hours a day... I realize that I have become a little nutty.

Maybe.

In between karate and T-ball and permission slips and job applications and craft projects and making do with less, I think I am just about to scream... and then something else comes up and I have to reschedule screaming.

It's like I found my afterburners.... And there's a kind of empowering giddiness to it sometimes, especially as I implement the stuff on my '100 days of towards a change' list.

So (and here's the segue) have I mentioned that we have a young racoon living in our attic? And a squirrel? Yes, both have been spotted on occasion - ripping into our soffits and skittering above our ceilings.

Clearly, they are cohabitating in some kind of Jerry-Springer "Caught on Video" unnatural relationship but they are always careful not to be caught leaving or entering at the same time. Sort of implying a time-share thing. Much like the "unproven except everyone knew it was going on Brad and Angelina" thing way back, uh... last spring.

But whatever kind of Republican-baiting kind of lifestyle they are engaging in, it is time they stopped doing it in our house. So we borrowed a small animal live trap from a friend and set it up in the attic.

No joy in Mudville.

For a week of nights, the racoon-squirrel (squacoon!) outwitted us, folks.

So CD got the idea to leave the trap in the driveway just under their favorite soffit with a Mighty Beef can of cat food as bait.

You know what Mighty Beef bait catches you?

A cat.

Stunning, ain't it?

There it was. A big puffball of neighborhood cat. Blinking and shivering. Maybe feral. So we called the town's non-emergency police number specifically set up for animal control.

And got their voice mail.

Left a message.

24 hours later, they hadn't called back and Puffball was REALLY pissed. And thinking about pressing aggravated kidnapping charges.

We let her go.

It was either that or adopt her.

Undaunted in his squacoon mission, CD reloaded the trap.

This morning, on my way to drive Bear to school, we stepped out the back door to find... Son of Puffball. A little gray thing, scrunched up against the cold rain.

I sighed, and bustled Bear off to the van.

25 minutes later, I pulled back into the driveway. Son of Puff was dripping wet and watching me with big eyes. In the dark gap of the ripped-open (again!) soffit above us, I swear I saw golden eyes blinking - with smirk. Cheshire-cat kind of smirk. The kind of smirk that makes me want to buy a BB Gun. Yes, me.

I squatted next to the trap.

"Puffy," I said to the gray tribble. "Puffy, you picked the wrong can of cat food."

Puffy didn't say much back.

"I'm supposed to call the Police so they can put you to sleep. Kill you, really. 'Cuz you're not only homeless and probably rabid. You are also, clearly, stupid. Dumber than a squacoon, for damn sure."

Puffy shook his fur.

With a sigh, I slipped open the trap and let him run free.

I told myself it was because I am just too busy to be dealing with cats taking up space in a squacoon trap.

But it was nice to watch him run like a blur through the bright green grass of our backyard. For a place where no laundry needed doing, and no list needed checking off.

Share: Delicious! | Stumble It! |   Slashdot It!