Robin's Outdoors

While you read this, especially if you’ve never lived in the woods, please remember the poultry. When I got my first chicks in 1997 I did it knowing their safety was my responsibility. Raccoons will find a way into a place when you think no way exists.

5:15 am. Three dogs paced and whined at the bedroom door. I was awake but the bed warm and cozy, and the house was cold. I didn’t want to get up. They were insistent so I got up, let them out, made coffee, and soon heard the bark of death from Ava and Scooter. I pulled my boots and down vest on, grabbed the million candle power flashlight and went out. Eighteen degrees, too cold for April.

Sebastian sniffed at the base of stove-length cedar logs waiting to be split as kindling. His hair stood on end down his spine and he growled. He’ll be 13 in a couple of months and has bad hips; he’s in no shape to chase predators but he’ll find them and bark at them. When Seb’s hair is on end I know he’s serious. Something had been in the shed.

Ava and Scooter barked at the rabbitry door, sniffed at the ground around the door, desperately wanting to get inside. I turned on the flashlight, unlocked the door and swung it open. Sebastian joined them in the brief hunt that turned up nothing. We checked the barn next; nothing there either. Satisfied that nothing was nearby, I went back to the house to build the fire and have coffee, leaving the dogs outside.

The bark of death started again a few minutes later, this time from inside the shed. They were certain something was overhead. Ava climbed the small woodpile, disappeared beneath the huge and under the cluttered workbench used for making six foot Christmas wreaths years ago. If there was something in the mess beneath the bench it was never going to be found. Scooter barked at something I couldn’t see. Boots and vest on again (I was still in my jammies), flashlight in hand (5:40 am), I went to the shed door. The shed, by the way, is attached to the corner of the house, 1900′s style. It’s at the end of the back porch.

The dogs were convinced something was overhead but I couldn’t see anything. I brought them into the house so they’d stop barking and let Steve sleep. They wanted nothing to do with being in. After 10 minutes of whining and pacing, we went out. They saw something and chased it into the woods. I was grateful for the frigid night and the ability to walk on top of the crusty snow as we made our way through the woods. They ran well ahead of me and returned without being called. Whatever it was, they were satisfied it was gone. We went back to the warm house.

Steve woke up, stumbled through the house on his way to the bathroom, did a double take out a window. Piper, our 22 pound cat, hurried into the shed. Or so Steve thought. Piper was asleep on the loveseat in front of the now warm wood stove.

Key the bark of death in the shed again. Steve is 6′ 3″. He can see and reach more overhead in the shed than I. He got the .22, banged around on some boards stretched between rafters and yelled, “Rob! It’s a raccoon.” I brought the dogs in. Seb and Scooter are afraid of the loud noise guns make. Ava came in so Steve wouldn’t have to keep track of her.

I have no tolerance for raccoons. They’re the number one predator on my homestead. They rip wings and legs off live birds, eat the limb while the chicken, duck or turkey suffers, then go back for more. Yes, I know, it’s nature’s way. I’m honestly not one to interfere a lot with nature. Still, the way a raccoon will torture a bird compares to the way coyotes eat the hind quarters of live deer.

Standing in the door where Steve knew I was, door cracked a little to listen, I heard the first “POP” of the .22 followed by a thud. He’d hit it, and it fell to the floor. “Little bastard,” was followed by a second “POP,” banging and crashing as the raccoon went to the worst possible place, under Steve’s seven foot wide, eight foot long workbench. Steve came in, giving it time to die.

Ava slipped out the door behind Steve when he went to get the dead coon. I wanted her to see it, check it out closely like she did the bobcat, to know what she’d been chasing. She found blood and the scent in seconds and disappeared under the workbench. I called her to come back a split second before the low, guttural growl and hissing started. The raccoon was wounded but no where near dead. Dammit. As much as I dislike them, I don’t want raccoons or anything else to suffer.

Steve started to climb under the bench to get to Ava, but knocked things over, trapping her under the bench with the raccoon. It growled and hissed. We didn’t hear her bark or growl. Steve had a clear view of the raccoon but Ava was too close to it for a safe shot. He grabbed the ax to his right, climbed onto the bench, and brought it down hard toward the raccoon’s head several times, but it was just out of his reach. He scrambled down as I cleared a path for Ava and brought her out. She was traumatized by being trapped with the coon and the thrashing and banging of Steve hitting an empty bin several times while swinging the ax.

A shot to the head killed the coon.

What a disaster. We’ve never had an encounter with a predator go so wrong. We normally deliver an instant death.

Ava tremble and twitched, her eyes darted back and forth and she had the spacey, out of it look she gets when she’s stressed. Ava has epilepsy. Her eyes dart and she twitches when her brain is on overload. Stress aggravates her epilepsy. We snuggled on the couch to soothe her but it wasn’t enough. Her eyes continued to dart back and forth so I gave her an aspirin. She couldn’t lie still on the dog bed. We went for a walk because exercise helps her slow down.

We let Ava see that the raccoon was dead, hoping it would help her settle down. That didn’t work. We didn’t let Scooter and Seb see it because there was too much blood. No need to have them exposed to it unnecessarily.

Checking it out from a safe distance.

This raccoon didn’t live an easy life. She lost part of her tail. She had numerous scars, probably from fighting. A wound on her face looks like it abscessed. The canine tooth shown in the photo is broken. It should look like the long teeth in this photo.

It looks like this wound abscessed. Notice the broken canine tooth.

She didn’t appear to be pregnant and definitely wasn’t nursing so there aren’t starving kits to wonder about for the next week.

Seeing the raccoon didn’t help slow the impulses in Ava’s brain. She’s sleeping now thanks to a full dose of Valium that helps her brain settle down. Being scared didn’t step her from wanting to work. I took her out to check on the poultry and collect eggs before the Valium kicked in (exercise, keep her moving, most seizures happen when she’s still). She scooted out the door and tried to get into the shed to look for more raccoons. I’d already closed the door to keep her out. She’s a brave dog.

I poured a little bleach on the blood spot. I don’t know that it will kill any live rabies virus immediately but it keeps the dogs out of it. Rabies is highly unlikely, there hasn’t been a reported case closer than 20 miles away.

So far this year we’ve had problems with a bobcat, the raccoon, and something we didn’t catch or identify. We’ve lost seven birds to predators, an all time high for a year let alone 10 weeks. A fox hunts nearby but doesn’t come too close thanks to our dogs presence. We’d never kill the fox just for being in the area. I’ve seen an owl twice and a hawk once but they’re not causing problems thanks to the dogs chasing them away. So what’s next? Bears are out of hibernation and hungry. The trash is locked up and the bird feeders are empty. They have no reason to stay when they wander through.