Eat up, Little Buddies

I set up my game camera again and left it in place for two days. The result? No bears. No coyotes. Just the usual coons, plus a third fox.

I am eat up with foxes.

How can I tell it’s not one of the other two foxes I filmed? Easy. This is a small fox with a red tail. The first fox was the same size, more or less, but it had a dark tail. The second fox was much bigger.

Again, I decry the disgraceful policies of a benighted government bureaucracy that won’t let me shoot him. Three foxes! This isn’t a normal population of helpful predators living in balance with their environment. This is a PACK. A deadly fox PACK. Waiting to ambush some…some HELPLESS OLD LADY. And nibble the tennis balls on the feet of her walker. Ruthlessly.

Why does our government want to kill helpless old ladies?

I hunted foxes once. My grandfather found a literal foxhole–they exist–in a pasture, and he dumped me near it with a .22. He told me to kill whatever came out. It never occurred to me to ask him whether he actually knew anything about foxes. I wasted an afternoon and came home with nothing except fresh grass stains.

I had a similar bad experience with a groundhog hole he located. He said there was definitely a groundhog in it because there was fresh dirt in the mouth of the hole. For all I know, he dug the hole as a gag and kicked dirt in it to fool me.

Our coons seem to be quite fat. I don’t know why that is. I am forced to speculate that some snowflake has been making pancakes for them.

Gluten-free.

Coons are horrible. They kill poultry. They throw trash all over the place. They poop in swimming pools. Nonetheless, there are misguided people who think coons are cute, and they have been known to feed them.

This is like feeding a rat, only a thousand times worse.

It makes me wonder: if I blast the coons and they stop showing up for handouts, will I have to deal with angry hippies coming to my gate and forcing me to get out the 200-foot hose?

In the videos, the coons appear to waddle. They’re probably full of Ho-Hos and crunchberries. Liberal stoner forage.

The other day I found out there are confused people who feed coyotes. A lady told me some foreigner rented a house near her and started feeding the “dogs” that showed up in the yard. They would wait for him to come out with a bowl of food. Someone had to tell him they weren’t dogs.

Naturally, this gave me an idea. Bag of dog chow. Dog dish in yard. Hunting blind in yard. Me in blind.

It might get me some easy coyote hides, and if that didn’t work, at least I might manage to harvest a neighbor’s poodle.

I don’t think anyone is feeding the coyotes. Intentionally. They look like kind of strung-out. Like Faces of Meth coyotes.

Speaking of addicts, my squirrel feeders have come online. One of them has, anyway. I put one on a tree in the front yard, so I can shoot from a rocking chair. The other is out back, across a small pasture. That will allow me to use the air rifle and scope while maintaining crucial proximity to the refrigerator and microwave.

The one out front has been attacked. The squirrels are trying to chew up the clear plastic window that holds the food in. They’re so stupid they haven’t found the one behind he house. I never gave them much credit for brains, though, even though squirrel brains are a delicacy. Which I have no plans to try.

When I saw that the squirrels had tried to break the feeder and eat everything at once, naturally, I thought of Democrats.

Self-explanatory.

SLDM. Squirrel Lives Don’t Matter.

My plan is to get the squirrels fat and stupid. Then the reckoning.

If size doesn’t mean anything, this must be one of the world’s premier squirrel hunting grounds. Nearly every tree here produces acorns. It’s like me living in a forest of trees that produce pizza. If I had made a real effort to kill squirrels this year, instead of goofing off until the season was nearly over, I could have lived on the miserable things. When I walk outside, sometimes I’ll see four of them running around like they own the place.

This fall it will be different. I will have the blind, and I will have given up on rifles. It’s going to rain startled rodents.

I’ve done nothing about turkeys since I tried and failed to find their roosting places. I don’t think they’re here. I could get a call and see what happens.

My night scope should be here tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be able to dispatch some coyotes at last. I’m not sure what to do with them. I want to use my hunting knives, but I don’t think the pelts would be very good. Florida is hot, and animals here look mangy. I guess I’ll skin some if I can, just to build skill.

Someone said I should order a scalpel handle and a bunch of #22 blades. Right after I bought three nice knives. I suppose he’s right, but dang.

I haven’t shot the .204 Ruger yet. Waiting for the scope. Once I get it, I’ll figure out how well it works at various distances, and then I’ll try to use it to hunt.

I have to learn what I can here. Then when I move to a bigger piece of land in an area where there is more game, I’ll be in a better position to get it done.

Time to go to the store. I plan to get marshmallows while I’m there.

They say coons like those.

Heh heh.