Try this when you’re having one of ‘those’ days:
Try this when you’re having one of ‘those’ days:
Try this when you’re having one of ‘those’ days:
Lisa sent me this yesterday. I love YouTube…
Note: do not watch while drinking milk.
Game warden and the USDA game hunter came up here this morning to check out the remains of the mountain lion. It seems whilst on his way up the road, the game hunter crossed paths with….you guessed it….a mountain lion. Sorta doing a tap dance, exit stage left and flashing Jazz Hands as he crossed the road in front of his truck. Cocky SOB.
“Hmmmm” The USDA game hunter thought to himself “I thought Art said he killed it”.
Well yes, actually, Art DID kill it, as evidenced by the last posting. This was not the ghost of Cougar Past, this was a newer, stronger Cougar. A bio-engineered Cougar developed by OSI and released into the wild for real time testing. Programmed with the latest technology, fully outfitted with the strongest materials and high tech replacement parts, and an amazing sense of rhythm (as evidenced by the impromptu dance performed for the game hunter). This was not your Grandpa’s mountain lion.
Yeah, there’s another one. Sigh. I had all of 10 hours or so of relief. Fabulous.
Well, maybe this one will just leave us alone. That would be nice, I think. I really don’t want to kill anything else. Really.
Needless to say, the steel cage held. I was, like, 2 feet from the dude when I took those pictures. And let me reitterate…he was PISSED OFF.
Art the Husband popped him at the thoracic inlet with a shotgun slug (no buckshot, duh). It was fast and hopefully painless. And clean.
See….big kitty. I’d say he probably weighed in at about 85-90 lb. The game warden will be weighing him tomorrow when she comes out to take care of the details and haul the carcass away.
Check out the feet on this guy (it was a boy). That’s my hand. Shit….
And the nails on this thing were unreal:
And the teeth, the canines are almost as big in diameter as my ring finger.
(yes, that is a syringe cap you see in the background. I took blood for the game warden. I dunno what they wanted it for, but I got it.)
Well, I suppose Mr. Big Sneaky Lion Pants’ reign of Sheepy Terror is over. And I am breathing a lot easier. I don’t spook easy, but knowing that this guy was out there, almost every night, not knowing where or when….really freaked me out. I feel much better now. Jack is safe. The two remaining sheep and ClarkBar are safe. Phweew.
Mr. Big Sneaky Lion Pants had a Mrs………
Art and I are going to to head up to have a little conversation, a tete a tete if you will, with Mr. Bad Ass All Your Livestock Are Belong to Us. I just hope the trap holds. Seriously. Big Ass Cat up there. Serious.
Well, if you count ‘working’ as catching anything of the feline variety… like a barn kitty :-/ Yea, I went out this morning, saw the cage door down and thought – “hey, problems solved”… no, not so fast. Where’s the cougar? No, inside the trap is Freddy, our youngest (and most curious) barn kitty, sitting in the middle of the trap in a pile of hay, crying.
The cougar meanwhile, finds the trap closed, his sheep inside and some little cougar wannabe inside. So, he goes in search of another sheep to make a meal – scratch yet another sheep/lamb. At least he chose the most annoying/spooky little one we had and ate its head off.
Tonite the barn kitties get put in carrier crates in the barn to keep them from interfering.
We are so fucked, Val.*
H called this Saturday morning to see if I wanted to go for a hike. Sure, of course, anything to help get her mind distracted from Spirit, if even for an hour or two. So she heads up her around 11am. That’s fine, I was up at (!) 8am and figured on talking her into doing some gardening or something else (it looked like rain, and I’ve still got a bum achilles tendon, hiking is probably not a great plan, but, you know how it goes…). And I did distract her, with gardening, persimmons, and Art the Husband rounding up the Obnoxious Goats to haul them off to their new home (not a moment too late, I was ready to shoot the dirty nasty things…they got out of the upper pasture and were taking turns defiling the female sheep for the last 24 HOURS STRAIGHT). Art was fruitlessly chasing one of the ram sheep around with a lasso (I told him it wouldn’t work…did he listen? Nooooooo.) And that was entertaining for a while. H got bored and decided we HAD to go for a hike with the dogs. Okay, um, sure. Find sturdy hiking boots and a hiking /cougar beating stick.. ready to go! Wait, she wants to go where? Oh yes, over to the hill across the street that we just watched the ranchers unload a huge and I do mean gigantic bull into. Uh, hows about NO. Okay then, let’s go out the back of the upper pasture, you know, the one the cougar took 3 sheep down in? Oh yes, much better choice.
We tracked across the remains of the missing lambs. Several hides and piles of bones. No cougars noted though. We were hiking with a pack of 5.25 hounds, unlikely anything was going to mess with us (Q was the scare factor, I’m pretty sure)
We hiked, mostly straight down, like sidestepping straight down…it’s that steep. These hills out here are a serious workout. They are deceptively steep. About a half mile later, we crossed a creek (note: ONE CREEK, ONLY ONE) and trekked up. Straight up. Oh, by the way, my achilles is starting to pulse and ache. Too much angle hiking. We go on, about another 1/2 mile and turn back. H sees The Creek, and decides perhaps we can take a short cut (btw, don’t do this when you are hiking. ‘Short Cuts’ do not exist on a hike, ever) back to the meadow that leads up (straight up, like, need a rope ladder straight up) to the house. We cross the creek. Well, H and the some of the dogs cross the creek and scramble up the opposite side, disappearing from sight. Her old man dog Apollo and I are negotiating the ravine that houses the creek. My achilles is on FIRE now. I’m not doing well at this moment. Apollo shrugs at me as if to say “What are you gunna do? I gotta go now, you’re on your own” I’m limping, severely and oh yes, what is that intense stinging sensation, sort of like fire ants….oh. I look down and find I’m standing in the only patch of greenery within eyesight. My horticultural instinct kicks in as the stinging intensifies on my shins….ahhhh, yes, the infamous Stinging Nettle. THIS SHIT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, IN A CREEKBED, IN NOVEMBER. Fuck. Achilles on fire. Both bare shins tingling and stinging and now throbbing. I struggle up the ravine, using one leg and my hiking stick (I love you, hiking stick) I’ve got dirt and leaves in my hair, oh, hello biting flies. Did I mention the ticks? Yes, I’m feeling them crawling on my neck, behind my ears. H is gone, I hear her up ahead “Oh, Lisa, there’s another ravine. We only crossed one ravine, now there are two.”
Wipe sweat from eyes. Pick tick from behind right ear. Big fucker. On the bright side, H is back to her normal self, if even only for a little while. Mission accomplie.
March/hike/limp onward. Another ravine, steeper, this one nettle and water free. Thank gawd. More struggling, dirt in my mouth, eye and ears this time. More biting flies. Dammit.
H, gone again. ‘Where are you? Are you coming? Okay, I don’t think this is the way we came…”
“Wait, I see the road.”
“Oh goodie.” Twist good ankle. Cuss under breath.
Yes, it is indeed the road. I could kiss it. Until I realize that H’s shortcut pooped us out about a mile down the road from our house. I get tired just DRIVING this section of road, it is a completely insane grade. H is perky, we found the road! Okay, how far are we from your house?
I look heavenward. It starts to fucking rain (okay, it was SPRINKLING, but I was sure that considering our circumstances and my luck, a downpour was immenant). I smile and reply “Oh, not far.” This was a lie, sort of. Under normal circumstances I would say we weren’t far, because we really weren’t. But in the state of mind I was in, near dragging my bum foot behind me, we might as well have been 5 miles from home. In my mind, we were a good way from the house.
We meandered home. Art hadn’t really noticed we were gone as long as we had been, and admitted when questioned that he wouldn’t have really started to worry until it got dark and we hadn’t returned. Oh my, but this was reassuring. Note to self: become more self sufficient. We retired to the house for coffee and homemade waffles. Art left to deliver goats.
As I write this, my ankles are still tingling like someone is sticking straight pins into them. The ibuprofen hasn’t touched my achilles. I feel GOOD, the exercise was awesome, just what I needed. But from the knees down, I’m a fucking mess. It’s pouring rain (it waited until we got home). I’m warm and happy. H got a reprise from grief and a huge bag full of persimmons; she left smiling. The stinking bawling goats are gone. We didn’t get eaten by a cougar.
I suppose it wasn’t THAT bad.
*bonus points to anyone that can name the movie this phrase was taken from.
He’s come so far: he’s housebroke (no accidents in sooooo long), he knows all the basic commands (sit, down, go lay down, stop that, quiet, go crate, NOW, drop it, get it, stay, bring it here, reformat my c drive, go potty, get in the house, go….NOW), he heels, he comes when he’s called. Everyone who meets him adores him, I mean, look at this, how could you NOT fall in love with him????
Yeah, so he has a vice. It is reading. Or, shall I say, destroying reading material. But wait, not just any reading material. No, he is not random in his shredding. He has, to date, only destroyed 2 books. The first, back in July, one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES;
Fortunately I have read this one so many times I all but have it memorized, but still, an insult.
Another good book, which, I just found out is also being made into a movie. I will go see it, but not until I’m done reading the book. Funny, I first saw this book in a movie, and thought, I should read that*.
Interesting thing about this little Q-destroy-factor: he only eats the cover. Not the pages within, just the cover. The front cover. And he doesn’t really eat it, so much as he tears it into pieces and scatters them. I always have all the pieces to tape back together.
When I queried him on this matter this afternoon, he claimed innocence using words like unimpeachable, irreproachable, above suspicion, faultless and my favorite…squeaky clean. Mmmm hmmmm. Those are all very big words for such a small dog. I wonder where he might have picked them up?
Despite the prevailing circumstances, the toothholes match the teeth. And he remains….guilty as charged.
*bonus points and a wish granted to the first person who can tell me what movie this book played a key role in.
This is a filled pancake pan. I saw this about a month ago in a Williams Sonoma catalog. I was intrigued, yet skeptical. I mean, filled pancakes sound okay, but when you start callling them Ebelskivers and giving them a country of origin (Denmark) it starts getting a little weird. A little complex. A recipe I wondered if I could follow. Especially if it was in Danish. Yipes.
So yesterday I caved in and got one. This morning Art the Husband enjoyed raspberry jam filled pancakes. At first I tried to present them as Ebelskivers with a Danish accent. That just confused him (to his credit, he’s still sick with the flu, so I’ll give him a little leeway) But raspberry filled pancakes he understood and ate with gusto. They were fabulous. It may even cook gluten free pancakes. I will have to experiment.
Ebelskiver pan: highly recommended. Easy to use, easier to clean, fast breakfast.