Well, the Kat, you may say, is already a full week returned from the camp that so many of you graciously sponsored at no trivial expense: Where is the story, eh? With pictures?
She’ll come around to telling the tale in her own good time I think, but suffice it to say that she did indeed have a wonderful time, earned her driver’s license (!) and was advanced to “Junior Buckaroo,” which – as most of you will have concluded, being the more perceptive (and tasteful) sort – is but a little way removed from the desired, full-on Buckaroo status. It somewhat to do with a harsh test and over-loose reins, I gather. I will admit to a certain degree of relief upon hearing this news, in that full-on Buckaroo status enables a child – perhaps even one’s own – to move up from mere Western-style equitation where it’s points on for precision and smile while you’re at it – to “speed work,” otherwise known as barrel racing.
Barrel racing, for the uninitiate, is the equine equivalent of BFM, meaning that everything happens very quickly, with enormous forces and masses operating in strenuous opposition, tending towards a kind of dread finality with the outcome ever in doubt, right up until to the very end. It is not for the weak of heart, nor for parents with an (over) vivid imagination.
So in summary, she was a little let down even while vowing, with MacArthurian gravitas, that “she would return.” I was happy to have her back in once piece. Every golf shot pleases somebody.
She did take pictures and even kept a little notebook, so I’ve every expectation she’ll pen some proper words of thanks in time, but recent events have made it wise for a caring father not to press. You see, we have sacrificed yet another cat to the coyotes out back.
This happens with depressing regularity, considering the fact that we are plumped down in a rather significant suburban bedroom community. Our own back yard butts up against an overgrown creek which feeds the San Dieguito river. It’s wonderful for privacy, and one can almost pretend to be living in the country, but it also provides a fair amount of cover for the kind of fauna who make their living skulking in the brush and leaping out at domestic animals. It doesn’t matter what you tell, them, the cats will go outside in the back yard, and being curious beasts, occasionally venture further afield than those who care for them would prefer. Once out there, and emboldened by their initial success, they will – like teenagers – keep pushing at their boundaries until something checks them short. Sometimes they escape and internalize the lesson. But these coyotes do not subsist on field mice alone, and the terminus to one of their little paths opens quite upon our back yard. This cat – not much more than a kitten, really – was the Kat’s own special creature, rescued from a pitiful abandonment beneath a bush and she’s feeling rather low at present.
For our own part (and despite the fact that we hold no special place in our hearts for cats in general) we decided that we’d had enough and retrieved the scoped, semi-automatic .22 LR from the storage locker, thinking that should Mr. Coyote show his bestial form it would be no great task to loose one carefully aimed round betwixt the eyes to be followed up with a hammered pair to the center of mass in order to get a little of our own back. We flattered ourselves that we could get all that done before the neighbors were quite aware that there had been a violation of the housing association conventions, far less where that violation might have emanated from.
Fate was kinder to the coyotes than to our own machinations in the event, for never did a clear shot present itself before the Hobbit smoked out our plan. You see the rifle itself was hidden behind a living room chair covered by a kind of throw blanket, while the magazine was hidden separately but close at hand. Being a women, she’d somehow noticed something out of place and, having eventually discovered the admittedly unusual presence of a rifle in her living room asked quite casually over the evening news whether it wasn’t time to put it back in the safe, at all? Taking into consideration both the inhumanity of the contemplated act and the time/money potentially spent avoiding imprisonment for discharging a firearm within the city limits?
She was informed – but clearly not reassured – that the thing would be done in good time. In the event her patience lasted a shorter interval than my own malice, for when a fleeting opportunity arose to tally up a reckoning, the implement chosen for the purpose was not to be found at hand and the moment was lost.
The fact that she is probably right is of little recompense. Our blood is up.
Two words: Pellet Gun! two more words Cross Bow!
Growing up in Western Montana, too many years ago, enabled a certain amount of expertise with another age-old, hand held conveyance of mayhem known as a sling-shot. Armed with even a hand-made model can prove destructive to any number of 4-legged, small ground animals, just as it did in my youth.
The advent of small metallic orbs proved to be a great step up in the arms race against all form of vermin.
Ahhh… those were the days! With the coming of one’s 12th anniversary here on earth, one could purchase a license for that stated purpose. One license permitted one elk, two deer, a bear and fishing in the lakes and rivers of Montana as well as predators such as coyotes, snakes, etc.
Having lost 2 feline friends to the coyotes of Southern California when I was young, I feel her pain. I’m sorry for her and sorry that you weren’t able to rid your backyard of the nasty creature.
Lex:
Please pass on my condolences to your daughter. We were fortunate in that our cat liveda long and healthy life. She has our sympathies.
Lex,
If your blood is really up buy a couple of cheap steaks, cut them up and soak overnight in anti-freeze. Place them where the targets will find them and wait. The problems will go away.
What you really want is the airsoft ASC7 Claymore mine:
http://www.floridaairsoft.com/reviews/asc7/
Uses airsoft BBs, which could even use popcorn kernels [organic, keeps the neighbors happy]. Trip wire activated across coyote’s path or command detonated when you see the varmints in the backyard. Comes in set of two for overlapping fields of fire, with stylish Claymore carry bag. Kat can wear the bag to school, to show friends that Dad took care of the coyote problem “with extreme prejudice”.
Coyotes will be wary of being hammered by stinging BBs and will just avoid your place. Probably so will overly pacifist neighbors, but that’s a side benefit.
I share your exasperation with cats, but a family member is a family member and vengeance must be had. Still, friendly force felines returning to your perimeter after dark would do well to remember the password.
Yes, its’ a tacky sojer solution, but still kewl. Anyone can have garden gnomes. You’ll have no-nonsense ordinance that says ‘Front Towards Enemy’…
Lex
I was thinking about the Kat. And being a full-on Buckaroo. And as I sooo enjoy my own 11 and 14 year olds at the moment (Lord help me, why did I ever want children?!),
I was reminded of this:
“BFM – Basic fighter maneuvers. Dogfighting. Mano a mano. One versus one. Play hard or stay home.”
Like father, like daughter, eh?
Otherwise known as *What goes around, comes around*
Okay, I’ll shuddup now. Before any more of it comes around to bite me! But, seriously, you do have my sympathies, sir. By the way … she casually asks … care to take a couple more young girls for a few years?
I’m sure you wouldn’t even notice…
Dang, that sucks, Lex. Both for the daughter, and for the kitty. I’ve known some kitties I “wouldn’t miss” and some I’d take considerable risk to take loving care of.
Just like humans.
Oh, and I think the fee to the Feds is only like $200 for a suppressor.
Would a sling shot bring down a buck deer the size of a small horse?
So, you want another cat? I could ship a few…
On the coyotes, first watch “Caddyshack.” Then get inside his head a bit. First thing you need to do is procure a case of Guinness, and mark your territory sir! A man’s home is his castle, is it not? So tell the dogs! Whizz on every tree, fence post and convenient bush on that end of the property. If anybody asks, tell them you’re doing a study on animal behavior. Carry a clipboard while you’re doing this and nobody will bother to question it.
Second act: fishing for dogs. First procure an electric fencer or something similar that has a nice voltage level (10K volts minimum) and wire it to a garbage can (metal, not plastic). Allow the remaining cats to investigate and learn to avoid. Replace the fencer with the stripped leads on an extention cord, invert the lid, fill with water, and place some old meat on a brick in the middle of it. 10K volts stings. 110vac at 15 amps hurts. 220vac at 40 amps kills. If you elect to do the 110vac routine you will be rewarded with yipping sounds in the middle of the night. You will then be able to roll over and sleep the sleep of the just and rightous.
If you need help with the electrics let me know, but the can is hot, the earth is ground, the dog is the conducting medium. It’s not difficult, and it need not be lethal or illegal. I’m betting there isn’t an ordinance against it.
– Max
Oh, on barrel racing? Let her ride. There are hardly any serious injuries in the sport, beyond what even recreational riding provides. If she wanted to go bull riding you’d have a point, but the barrels don’t hurt and centripetal force means if there is a misstep she’s being thrown away from the half-ton hay-burner, and that five foot fall would happen if she were cantering in the back yard anyway.
And look on the bright side — if she can master a half-ton animal and bend it to her will, your chances of trouble with her pick of son-in-law decrease significantly. It’s a win-win!
– Max
Lex – we look forward to the Kat’s stories once she is properly recovered from her loss. Since she is clearly a budding adrenaline junky, like her daddy, I wonder if her writing shows similar promise…
Condolences to the Kat for her precious kitty. Hard thing, losing cats like that.
Max, you’re a genius!
Your solution does not risk any eye damage to pets and doubles as a water feature. The claymores can just sit menacing in the garden, to impress party guests. Only the host needs to know they aren’t actually loaded and armed.
Barrel racing is a great rodeo sport, but good helmets are a must:
http://www.troxelhelmets.com/safety/testimonials.php
Maybe it’s time to take the Test of Guyness? Your attention is invited to question #6:
6. In your opinion, the ideal pet is:
a. A cat.
b. A dog.
c. A dog that eats cats.
Is there no love for the Coyote? What a hard working beast he is. Too bad there aren’t any on this side of the bay. Every old lady on the island has a feral cat or twenty.
Two additional words, subsonic rounds. While the lawnmower is running.
Oh, if it were just a matter of the odd feline more or less then it would all be as none to me. But the womenfolk do tend to get attached to the rough beasts and our mellow is much harshed in their violent absence, what with all the concomitant caterwauling.
Heh: Caterwauling.
Lex, you’re a riot. I feel a great deal of sympathy for Kat, but I cannot shake from mind the laughter-inducing images of you hiding the shotgun behind the chair, the Hobbitt finding it, etc. I hope I know you for a very long time, ’cause I can’t wait to see what you’re like when you’re 90 or so. ROFLMAO!
You’ve cried havoc, and brought the iron down out of the attic, and put it back after a decent interval. All parties should be satisfied.
Oh, Max; I usedta do that. My Mom left us a big old-fashioned galvanized watering can, with the sprinkler head on it.
I’d, uh, fill it up, and then beat the metes and bounds, sprinkling as I went. The kitty would follow behind, underlining or perhaps overspraying my “words”.
Worked like a charm. Apprised my kitty that he should observe the same property lines as did the humans, and advised the other doggies and kitties that the place was, if not defended, at least posted.
I did it in broad daylight, too
Justthisguy, I have to admit my ideas are more theory than practice, seeing as how I have horses and the coyotes stay away from the equines. Still, the thought of Lex, shoulders squared and standing nearly at attention while whizzing on a puckerbush and checking it off neatly on his clipboard has me chuckling.
On the electric garbage can, I can personally attest that it works. On both coyotes and feral dogs. South Dakota is a free range state. If livestock cross the road and I hit them, it’s my fault, but if I drive over a kid then hey the kid should have been looking before crossing the road. Kind of strange. If a dog is in my yard I can do nothing lethal unless it’s bothering *my* livestock. The improvised Ol’ Sparky has convinced numerous feral mutts to seek their own homes.
On a quite night, no wind, and particularly in winter, I can hear them yelping for a couple of miles.
– Max
One more thought on barrel racing: the Kat has been brought up in the European tradition with respect to saddles? That’s fine insofar as it goes (I prefer a European saddle myself) but the real risk with equines is in the stirrups.
Western stirrups are covered towards the front, with a 1″ or larger diameter dowel to rest the foot on. Kind of like you cut off the front 4″ of a pair of shoes and are using them as slippers. The beauty of this is if you fall your feet come right out of them, and you support yourself with that wide saddle, not your legs.
European saddles use uncovered, small-dowel stirrups, no front cover. If you fall the stirrup locks beneath your heel and over your instep, securing you in the stirrup and ensuring you’re going to stay with the horse until your foot is removed.
Equestrian events are a lot like gymnastics and tennis, with great emphasis placed upon form and the proper look. If you’re worried, Lex, modify those European stirrups and her chances of injury decrease significantly.
In a car you want a seat belt to keep you inside — the car provides the protection. With a horse, you want to part company — the horse is no protection and generally a large mass to fall or trod upon you. Decrease that risk with a proper stirrup and I dare say you’ll have made her chosen sport about as safe as you can.
– Max
Max, most of her riding is in fact English, and it’s only when she’s up at Rawhide Ranch that she rides Western.
As for the English-style stirrups, I have been re-assured (having paid absurd amounts of money for them) that they are of the “quick release” kind and safest in the trade.
Either that or they are made of pure silver. Only possible explanation.