January 13, 2005

Best not to bother trying to put this story in the right timeframe or sequence. Learned years ago that folks object to my being at the ranch overburdened with calving heifers before one deadline, only to be fretting with airport security far away from the ranch the next week.

But I realized the morning I checked the heifers and left the front gate to the yard and the front door to the house open in the chill of a December morning that I needed to make a business trip to Austin. "Business" meaning eating on white linen, sleeping on high thread count sheets, using Turkish towels to dry in a big hotel to address business in a newspaper left by the hotel room door every morning at 6 a.m.

            The part that's hard to connect is that during the business trip, my friend and I moved to a private residence across Austin from the hotel. First night there, we discovered a raccoon lived in the attic — a heavy-footed, restless, light-sleeping raccoon. The kind of varmint, though nocturnal, given to walking in his sleep. Think of a clog dancer rehearsing over your bedroom, or Hogarth the dreaded Viking of the North Sea walking in hobnails overhead.

            At daybreak, investigation showed the coon had gnawed a hole in the roof by the rock chimney. Had opened the attic to all of the protected fauna, endangered flora, and global warming climate currently on defense in Austin, Texas. Standing in the backyard looking at the damage (second raccoon offense against her roof in '04) and clasping my friend's hand to support her, the image of a blue steel, snub-nosed .38 Special Smith and Wesson pistol Jose and I smuggled into Mexico so many decades ago flashed. Felt the checkered wooden grips; recalled the broad target sights and the recoil from a heavy grain load.

            Back indoors, I called my son Ben to borrow a shotgun and a couple of shells. He stalled my request by asking what I needed a gun for on a Sunday morning in the Capitol city? Became specific by saying: "Dad, you two aren't on your Crockett County grounds. Whatever you are planning to shoot is protected by law and by a vast majority of the town's citizens."

            Deterred, I requested he bring us one of those urbanite heart-something-or-other traps to catch a coon long enough to repay the sapsucker for eating a hole in my pal's roof. I told him not to worry over public opinion, or city, state, federal, or common laws. "Once that merriweather sapsucker is captured," I said, "I'll read him his rights and mete the sentence."

            By mid-morning, Ben arrived with a big rusty cage opened on one end by a trap door set by a trigger to bait in the other end. The trap goes by the name of "Have a Heart Trap." Sure was well named, as the next night the coon ate a big can of sardines, digested the bait on the trap floor, and escaped without tripping the door or turning a hair the wrong way.

            Called my son George next morning: "George, been planning on going on a little hunt at your brother Lea's ranch in Llano County. Need to borrow your four-ten shot… Oh, you heard about the coon." I paused; it was not necessary for him to repeat the identical admonishment as Ben's on how Austin folks treat swatting a garden gnat as a major breach against the balance of nature.

            On the second or third morning, my friend contacted a pest removal service. At 10 a.m. a neat young man arrived carrying a clipboard, businesslike as a stock broker. In fact, he smelled more like a stock broker than a trapper. He was late, but his excuse wasn't that he'd been tracking a phantom bear, the dreadnaught of Onion Creek, or making a set for "Old Three-Toe" the wiliest coyote bitch on the Colorado River. Further, he made me suspicious not trying to top my story of the winter of '36, when "Polecat Edward" caught 63 bobcats on Spring Creek without losing one bait or one trap. Knew he was a phony when he smoothed his hair and checked his fingernails.

            In the windup, my pal hired the metro humane trapper for a price many times over what 10 coon hides brought after World War Two. Ben came for the sardine buffet trap that leaked grown coons. A carpenter closed the hole to the coon's den. (Not sure, but mark this 300 bucks on the bill.) George promised to check on the roof after we left for home. And Lea Noelke rang, puzzled why I wanted his legal assistance to inform the city government of my rights under Article Two of the Constitution.

            Last day in the city, I read a touching article of the woes besetting Lakeway residents from marauding coyotes. Thought as we packed of sending the city slickers a pack of soft rubber bands to shoot at the prairie wolves. Last I heard, Prince Charming hadn't caught the raccoon.

January 13, 2005