In the last week, we've lost three more chickens of our already decimated flock. Matt suspected a raccoon was the culprit as one of the hens had her head eaten off (apparently the head is the best part to a raccoon). This morning at 2:30 a.m. the dog began barking--quite an unusual occurrence for a dog that only barks when she wants in or out. Matt got up to check it out. He ran back into the bedroom, changed into his pants and grabbed his 22. Needless to say, I was a little freaked--"What is it?!?" "A raccoon!" was his short reply as he ran out the door. A half an hour later he returned, but he hadn't been able to track the masked bandit.
Tonight after dinner, in an attempt to get the kids to run off some excess energy, I sent them on a hunt for the raccoon. Of course they didn't have any luck. Paul came back in the house and put on all his camo gear and his coon skin cap. He put his Williamsburg rifle cocked by the door with the caps laying on the stock. He's sleeping in his sleeping bag waiting for daddy to wake him when the raccoon returns. "Lay on varmit!"
