This past summer I was away from home a lot. My wife and I have a small parcel of land that is surrounded by land managed by the Bureau of Land Management. One of the downsides in living in the high desert is rattlesnakes. Among the sagebrush, cactus, and buffalo grass are kangaroo rats, all manner of mice, and the creatures who prey upon them. Shortly after moving in, my wife, the formidable Mrs. 4Js, shot a medium size rattlesnake that was coiled up in front of her vehicle.
Having grown up on a ranch, she knew what to do. At the first opportunity, she armed herself with a copy of the free shopper, drove into town, and returned with a whole clowder of cats. The cats were not employed as house cats, but were put straight to work as barn cats. Soon we noticed a marked reduction in the number of mouse droppings. My bucket traps no longer caught rodents. And a mortally injured bat managed to drag itself on to the front porch before bleeding out. No further snakes were noticed on the property. On my evening runs, I would occasionally see rattlesnakes, but none within a quarter mile of the house or outbuildings.
Four years passed and the ranks of the barn cats grew a little. They were doing a splendid job of keeping the rodent population low enough that rattlesnakes paid no attention to our little piece of Wyoming .
This past summer I was away on business when my wife called, and told me she was missing a few of her barn cats. I told her they were probably picked off by owls and hawks, and not to worry, someone was always giving away cats. She accused me of not having any feelings, and that Sunshine, Toby, (You can't get within five yards of the darn things, but they all have names.) and the other missing cats were her pets, and any caring person would………….."
Well, at that point I lost interest in the conversation and began cleaning my fingernails with my Old Timer pocket knife. I also occasionally said "Uh huh." into the phone, and you know what? I've had that pocket knife for thirty years! The blades are stained, but not rusted. It still holds an edge. The scales are worn smooth and it is just a great knife! I'm glad I bought it.
After a few days, I returned home and my wife was still going on about the cats. I walked around the outside edge of the horse pen, and all I saw were a few coyote and fox tracks. Nothing unusual. The next morning I woke up and made coffee. Mrs. 4Js stormed into house and angrily announced that she was missing a chicken. I told her that she should probably start closing their pen at night. A coyote or fox had probably snuck passed the dog and grabbed one.
The next morning I was awakened to my wife's angry face a few inches from mine. "Your coyote got another chicken last night".
" 'A' coyote got it. I do not personally own any coyotes. Did you close their pen last night?"
"No I didn't. We've lived here four years and I've never lost a chicken. If I shut the pen, I'll forget to turn them out. Then the grasshoppers will get the garden. And what are you going to do about the barn cats? We're missing five, and………………….."
Can you still buy chucka boots? You know the suede, moccasin toed half boots with the soft composite sole? They were great camp boots, and for stalking game in early season while it's still warm, they were just fantastic.
When I went outside that morning I surveyed the edge of the property. At the far corner of the horse pen, I found a pile of chicken feathers. A clue! I went to the shop, grabbed a trail camera, and set it up.
This is what I found.
Yep. Ole Wiley eating Snowball. I've left out the more gruesome pictures of the dis-assembly of the cat.
He only stole two chickens, but clearly had a taste for cat.
I shot ole Wiley a couple of days later while he was lying in the shade of a clump of sagebrush about twenty yards from the tack building where Mrs. 4Js fed the cats.
Having grown up on a ranch, she knew what to do. At the first opportunity, she armed herself with a copy of the free shopper, drove into town, and returned with a whole clowder of cats. The cats were not employed as house cats, but were put straight to work as barn cats. Soon we noticed a marked reduction in the number of mouse droppings. My bucket traps no longer caught rodents. And a mortally injured bat managed to drag itself on to the front porch before bleeding out. No further snakes were noticed on the property. On my evening runs, I would occasionally see rattlesnakes, but none within a quarter mile of the house or outbuildings.
Four years passed and the ranks of the barn cats grew a little. They were doing a splendid job of keeping the rodent population low enough that rattlesnakes paid no attention to our little piece of Wyoming .
This past summer I was away on business when my wife called, and told me she was missing a few of her barn cats. I told her they were probably picked off by owls and hawks, and not to worry, someone was always giving away cats. She accused me of not having any feelings, and that Sunshine, Toby, (You can't get within five yards of the darn things, but they all have names.) and the other missing cats were her pets, and any caring person would………….."
Well, at that point I lost interest in the conversation and began cleaning my fingernails with my Old Timer pocket knife. I also occasionally said "Uh huh." into the phone, and you know what? I've had that pocket knife for thirty years! The blades are stained, but not rusted. It still holds an edge. The scales are worn smooth and it is just a great knife! I'm glad I bought it.
After a few days, I returned home and my wife was still going on about the cats. I walked around the outside edge of the horse pen, and all I saw were a few coyote and fox tracks. Nothing unusual. The next morning I woke up and made coffee. Mrs. 4Js stormed into house and angrily announced that she was missing a chicken. I told her that she should probably start closing their pen at night. A coyote or fox had probably snuck passed the dog and grabbed one.
The next morning I was awakened to my wife's angry face a few inches from mine. "Your coyote got another chicken last night".
" 'A' coyote got it. I do not personally own any coyotes. Did you close their pen last night?"
"No I didn't. We've lived here four years and I've never lost a chicken. If I shut the pen, I'll forget to turn them out. Then the grasshoppers will get the garden. And what are you going to do about the barn cats? We're missing five, and………………….."
Can you still buy chucka boots? You know the suede, moccasin toed half boots with the soft composite sole? They were great camp boots, and for stalking game in early season while it's still warm, they were just fantastic.
When I went outside that morning I surveyed the edge of the property. At the far corner of the horse pen, I found a pile of chicken feathers. A clue! I went to the shop, grabbed a trail camera, and set it up.
This is what I found.
Yep. Ole Wiley eating Snowball. I've left out the more gruesome pictures of the dis-assembly of the cat.
He only stole two chickens, but clearly had a taste for cat.
I shot ole Wiley a couple of days later while he was lying in the shade of a clump of sagebrush about twenty yards from the tack building where Mrs. 4Js fed the cats.
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Why, thank you!
