Sunday, January 28, 2007
Way way back, in the way way backs of my blogging efforts, I wrote this. Now there used to be several stray cats prowling my neighborhood, but recently I've noticed their disappearance, likely due to the efforts of animal control and a few of my fellow well armed vigilante neighbors. Since then, I've noticed the predictable appearance of something else. Something else that is not only unwanted, but something else that I predicted way way back in the way way backs. Contrary to popular belief, stray cats are not a bad thing.
When some people look at a cat, they see this precious, delicate, little creature that was put on this earth merely to be the object of their ridiculous coddling and pampering. Oh you precious widdle kitty come give mommy wuvvies goo goo ga ga blah blah blah bullshit.
When I look at a cat, I see a small but efficient creature, with powerful jaws, sharp teeth, small but effective claws, and lightning fast reflexes obviously designed by nature to be a hunter of small, fuzzy, nasty, disease carrying things. The mangy bastards actually hold a special place in my heart provided that they're absolutely wild and therefore not possibly mistaken for potential pets by the fairer and more sensitive members of my household. Wild, stray cats live outside, animals belong outside, what's the problem? The removal of these feral assassins of rodentia may seem the thing to do, but it isn't. Humane possibly, but not altogether wise as I'm about to demonstrate.
It started innocently enough. First there were a few shredded items in a drawer, then the pitter patter of little feet above the ceiling at night. We named him Gus and sat out a few boxes of D-Con.
Now however, things are getting really out of hand. A recent investigation revealed several holes chewed through the baseboards in out of sight areas in the backs of cabinets no doubt connected to a system of routes and thoroughfares within the walls of my happy home being speedily negotiated by the deplorable little fuzzy vermin otherwise known as meeses. Last night, one was found basking comfortably in one of my daughter's dresser drawers totally oblivious to the fact that he was about as welcome as Hillary Clinton at a Merle Haggard concert.
May I be so lucky as to have total obliviousness be my last and final thought upon this earth.
Then the little fuckers chewed into my bag of dried kidney beans that I was saving to make a pot of my world famous elk burger chili with.
This has gone too far.
This means war.
Mrs. Justin agrees.
Fuck with my beans and you're fucking with your life.
In the past we've relied on mercenaries, aka cats, to thwart this invasion but in spite of their best efforts the enemy has somehow advanced forces past the lines. These hired soldiers are quite effective killers, but they lack coordination and direction therefore I am now required to take over command myself, to fortify our defenses, and to be the foot soldier in this campaign, an act that will require many sacrifices no doubt, mostly in the form of what I call Bob Vilaisms.
Anyone that knows me knows that I absolutely, positively, despise projects in the form of home improvement. I'm quite happy therefore to leave my home somewhat "unimproved" lest I be required to take up saw and hammer in the manipulation of wood into something other than it's raw form . . . aka tree. If houses were made of steel, I'd have the nicest house on the block likely spending weekend upon weekend with my welder, grinder, and cutting torch in hand adding on new rooms, creating all those decorative thingamajigs that house people like, sealing up leaks, painting over rusty spots, ect, ect, ect. Houses however are not made of steel, at least mine isn't, it's made of wood. Did I mention that I hate working with wood?
Obviously however, meeses don't hate working with wood, because they've found ways to bore themselves walkways through the stuff and therefore access my goodies. This whole problem could've been thwarted had mankind been smart enough generations ago to begin building houses out of steel, but they weren't. Let's face it, any mouse that's tough enough to chew through a piece of channel iron can just have the friggin house, I'm not getting in his way, but I haven't found any holes in iron yet, only wood and sheet rock. Did you know that meeses can chew through sheet rock? I didn't. I knew there was a reason why I hated that shit almost as much as wood, sheet rock that is. Awfully delicate and dusty stuff to work with, and obviously not even strong enough to keep a little ol' mouse at bay. Maybe I could mold a house out of solid concrete? Would that be mouse proof?
Anyway, I think I've come up with a solution that won't require me to itch my way through several hours of exposure to the sawdust that I so dread.
I'm thinking 10" wide aluminum roof flashing glued and nailed to the baseboard in the backs of the offending cupboards, along with an Expando-Foam, metal window screen cocktail around any pipes that I haven't already skirted with thankfully rodent tooth proof metal shields.
Wish me luck.
Combat commences . . . . . . . . . . NOW!