Apparently, some unauthorized Wild Animal has been tearing up the turf and digging out its dinner** from our rather shaggy grass.  I first noticed the excavation project the same morning our girls presented their first eggs.  (Almost tripped over the gouge marks, truth be told.)  What the ducks???!!!  Looked like either a drunken golfer came by and left a bunch of monster divots or an unscheduled meteorite strike (or ten) left a pockmarked calling card on the greens.  Either way, it certainly put a damper on my Egg Day enthusiasm, a side dish of anxiety along with the proto-omelets.  (Oooo, yum.)***

 

 

As you can see, a creature—a clawed creature—dug a bunch of these holes in the lawn near the sunflower maze sometime on Saturday night.  I mean, a few were a foot long and, as I found out later as I meandered to the composter, they were scattered all over the yard!  The composter-adjacent one also had a scat accompaniment (okey doke, this food metaphor has officially gone too far), which only contributed further to the general sense of unease.

The Raccoon is in the House!  The Raccoon is in the House! Run for your feathered lives!!!!!!!

Okay, okay, it’s cool.  Be cool.  Remember the first rule of Raccoon Club.

What?  Oh, right.  The first rule of Raccoon Club is…

PANIC!!!!

Run for your feathered lives!!!!

[This blog entry has been called on account of acute silliness.  Please check in at a later time when a more mature duck owner will take over the keyboard.  Thanks for following!]

 

*They’re welcome to my porridge and the rocking chair but leave my ducks alone! (Not to mention the bed….)

**Tonight we’re having Grubs á la Westchester.

***Next time, how about just some Tabasco?

 

 

Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes