Tag: Without Boarders or Borders

To you, I am a Raccoon, wild life without borders, turning over your trash can to make way with your left overs, stealing from your fruit trees; home invaders that are willing to settle for sheds if we can not penetrate your attic.

To me I am Rocky Racket Raccoon along with my Ms.  Rockette Raccoon and the Kits, just trying to make a living out of poor man’s dirt, as the song goes,  so give me a break, already.

We are incredibly marked with black fur encircling our eyes, off set  by shades of creamy to bright white fur. Our tails are ringed black and grey capped with a black tip. Our bodies are sturdy in the summer when we scavenge for food, leaner in the winter months when we do with less. We are motley shades of light black to dark grey. But it is our paws that resemble human hands in looks and dexterity, that amuse and amaze the Two Footed. Momma and Wonder Boy are no exception. We use them to fish, to carry kits, to climb trees, much like human but no guns, this is Canada, eh?

Some of our best friends are the cats in the neighbor hood. It is a fact, every morning, bright and early, I used to wake up, saunter up the porch steps and thump on the front door. Momma would open it, black and white Cat Mao and I would go walking down the sidewalk to the neighbor’s ornamental pool, flush with tropical fish.  We thought we were in Heaven as we splashed and perpetuated the Circle of Life.  For some odd reason, the Two Footed Owners were not so supportive.  They closed their pond forever, draining and filling it in. They planted rose bushes with thorns that ripped my fur out if I tried to poach a sweet rose bud.  I am just hoping the owners don’t get that rose-bush thorn infection.  It is just nasty…. 🙂

We are a happy-go-lucky bunch, and can acclimatize to many home settings.  That is why like the feral cats, we lived at the some of the ‘Too Big to Fail’ Auto Manufacturing Plants.  I have been told that upon occasion a raccoon would dive bomb the huge scrap bins, looking for food. The Maintenance Department would come with a ladder. Momma, as the Human Resource Manager would be called to sweet talk the raccoons out of the bin.  After all, those bins were for scrap steel. It was no place for a raccoon to stake a claim. They would sit and ponder exactly what Momma was telling them, then head to the side, deep in concentration, their unwavering eyes showing intelligence and trust.  Then they would walk over, climb up the ladder, jump off the side of the bin and scamper to shelter. Survival 101?

However my family have lived at this location as long as Mr. Grey Squirrel’s family. We got that, what do you call it – Squatters Rights.  We are not giving up our home because twenty years ago a family moved in with pets.  No, we adapt …..and play with them, on moonlit nights, under the cherry tree.

I tell you, who does not like a party?  Here in the garage, on an arctic mass winter day, ensconced on boards, running from rafter to rafter, Mama Rockette and I are huddled down, waiting for spring and remembering that perfect summer night, especially made for the nocturnal. We were all there. Wonder Boy was sitting on the bench, contemplating life and nature in his midst. The squirrels were high in the cherry tree, shaking the branches, raining ripe and not so ripe cherries to the ground.  The Indoor Outdoor Cats – there were four of them that night – were laying down Egyptian style, paws tucked under, on the steps.  With startling speed they would dive off the stairs, catch a cherry which looked so red, so sweet, so inviting, in mid-air, grimacing when their teeth pierced the cherry skin.  They would spit them out, tails twitching and march back up the steps.  That is when Mamma Rockette and I went wild, scooping the cherries up, swallowing them whole, pits and all.

Meanwhile, we still had our eyes on our three kits who were crawling up the steps, making friendly with the cats, while we feasted and gorged.  They would reach out their tiny paws and bat the cats playfully, who looked frozen. The Kitty Cat Club Med instinctively recognized that our kits were off limit.  They looked to Wonder Boy, pleading with their eyes, make the parents step up.  No worry, Mama Rockette was on the job.  She growled quietly as she mounted the steps, swatting her exuberant kits, directing down the stairs, and back to their nests, where they tumbled eagerly in position, to fall asleep as they nursed.

Mama Rockette and I, we are some of the lucky ones. We have learned it is much easier to live with Two Footed and their civilized pets than the predators that lurk in and are covered by, the deep, dark menacing forest.

Still, I don’t want any other raccoons moving in.                                             There are invisible / divisible borders in place and we expect all wild life to respect them….Got it, already?

Like this: See Without Boarders or Borders?

 Mr. Grey Squirrel                                                                                                           Mr. Grey Squirrel  Moves In                                                                        Keeping Up with Mr. Grey Squirrel

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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I am the lonely old  possum that hangs by my tail, in the ‘seen better days’ tree. The good news is, I am not really lonely.  I am a Cool Dude. I have a caring Mama and a nest of siblings that I purposely escape each day. I make my way to my favourite perch, an evergreen. I scamper up, higher and higher, looping my tail around a branch, like a bungee cord, free-falling,  so I can get an unobstructed view of the terrain below.

Why would I choose that tree, in that location? Well, you know, Momma lives there with all of her  Cool Inside / Outside cats, her Hot Dog, Mr. Grey Squirrel, his family and friends, the rabbits and colourful birds, oh and don’t forget the raccoons.  I like watching them too…and the bats, that at dusk, fly in formation, like bewitching shadows, their wings extended, as they glide, noiselessly, swooping and swaying, to their own inner antenna.

Jakita  considers me an unsub.  Whatever! I just don’t pass the sight and smell test. She constantly sounds the alarm, like ‘Do something Momma’.  Maybe she thinks that Momma should climb the tree and poke me.  Forget that.  Momma would then make me part of her entourage, give me a schedule, expect me to fit in, what ever that means.

 

The cats, I shall subdivide for you.  The Inside Kitty Club Med cats, ignore me.  They sashay indoors, never acknowledging my existence.  I can handle that.  I have to say, the feral cats, the rabbits and raccoons, even the birds and the squirrels, think all outside trees belong to them exclusively and are hostile accordingly.  Sharing is not their strong point.

Do you think it bothers me? This is the room with the view and I am not going anywhere, at least, until after I fall out of the tree and meander back to my den, to snuggle with Mama and my siblings.

 

Previously I had let you know how Mr. Grey Squirrel, cheeky and capricious, had persevered until he was successful at setting up residence in our attic loft.  Whenever he heard Momma or her family go in to the shed room, he would pop out of the trap door, high on the rafters and eyeball us, chattering non stop, to make sure we knew, he had won.

One day Super Boy came over and went out to the Shed Room to get a soft drink.  He came back to the kitchen, asking, “Uh, are you supposed to have a squirrel in your Shed Room?” Sister-Itty-Bitty, her friend, Wonder Boy, Daddy, Momma and I all went trooping out and there he sat on his haunches, front paws folded as if in prayer.

Daddy explained to our bemused family that it was okay, we would drive him out once the spring came.  We heard, but never saw Mrs. (Black) Grey Squirrel.  That is not till ‘that’ day – the day she had a mission.  Apparently Baby Black Grey Squirrel decided to explore the home he lived in.  How do we know?  They were caught in the act.  RIP Daddy had gone out to get drinks for his cooler.  Mrs. (Black) Grey Squirrel gave him a “back off look” – walked right over his feet, with something in her mouth. When Daddy bent over and looked closer, he was amazed to see The Sequel – Baby Black Grey Squirrel, (obviously his mama was doing the rescue of a kid gone bad). Then she nonchalantly did a Spider-(wo)man crawl back up the rafters, though the little door to the attic.

Another generation of squirrels to stake claim to the house.  It would not hurt so badly if they would be kind enough to contribute to the mortgage payments.  But I am thinking that in today’s economy, it would be hard for a squirrel to get a job. It is even tough for Momma and you know how versatile she is:

BEFORE Momma was: Climbing a rickety imaginary corporate ladder trying to break that elusive glass ceiling (not so successful).

NOW Momma is: Climbing a wobbly aluminum ladder to paint the stucco ceilings (successful), even if she falls off and lands in the paint tray, bruising her tail bone, as a consequence. (I tell her, I tell her,  DO NOT CLIMB LADDERS.  I can not be responsible for her inability to listen).

Maybe some day the city will start paying the squirrels for cleaning all the chestnuts that fall to the sidewalk from my neighbors’ massive tree.

Should that happen,  Mr. Grey Squirrel, maybe you can contribute to the household expenses, at least enough to repair the holes in the roof you create. Till then, let me warn you, Mr. Grey Squirrel and Family, your number is up – I know spring is here already and we have not made a move.  But just wait till it gets warmer.  As the Baseball Umpire says, ‘You’re out of here’.  This we promise you.

Part of the Mr. Grey Squirrel Series.  See:                                                       Mr. Grey Squirrel                                                                                                            Mr. Grey Squirrel  Moves In

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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They (the Two Footed) knew it was bound to happen because, I,  (Mr. Grey Squirrel) and my kind are doggedly persistent in all we set out to achieve.  No way would some fly by night homeowners with our long-established  squatters rights, keep us out.  The difference was we were here for eternity.  They were here until they tired of us, sold the property and  moved on.

I cased the joint.  I traveled every inch of the roof and awnings to find the most strategic point of entrance.  I found a couple of places that when I put my eye to a thin crack, I could see the unfinished attic, a paradise for winter living.  The first place I gnawed at day in and out for three days (but who is counting, what else does a squirrel have to do?).  However, when it came time for evaluation versus effort, I had to admit I had not made any headway through the plank.  Maybe those demon Two Footed creatures who constructed this home, had put in steel two by fours, just to discourage squirrels.

So I went to my second choice – second because it was on a slippery slope and it was hard to get a grip, so to speak.  Many times as I gnawed, I lost my balance, fell to the ground, had to climb the tree and start all over again, but by golly, that is life and they were not keeping me out.  Finally I had made an opening that I could flatten myself like a pancake (a blessing from the Higher Power who realized squirrels need a roof over their heads too, especially in those frigid months from December to April) and squeezed in.

And once in the home I invited my Significant Other to take up residence with me– a shiny black bushy-tailed Mrs. (Black) Grey Squirrel.  The owners of the home would have had to be deaf not to know that they had free loading borders in their attic.  They could hear us scurry, no, run to and fro, to and fro. The Two Footed Family tried to fall sleep in vain as we set up housekeeping.

Then there was the bowling balls that we, the Grey Squirrel Family chased down the timbers. Chestnuts, that I swear sounded like they weighed ten pounds which we had harvested diligently, all summer long, for winter staples.  On top of that was the usual moving in noises.  You know – the dragging and positioning of furniture for our abode to be more comfortable.  What furniture, you ask naively? Well, Momma had left a corrugated box high up on the rafters.

Once in the attic we could access our Shed Room in all of it’s’ splendor.  Momma saw that box, disappear, one corner at a time, as our sharp teeth ripped and our able paws dragged it away, in pieces.

We were busy to bust and not going anywhere soon!

 

 

 

Part of the Mr. Grey Squirrel Series.

 

One day, long time ago, Momma’s father (a.k.a Grandpapa to me) told her and her sisters that he had met up with Peter Cottontail that very day in the forest. (OK, alright, settle down, they lived in the country, not downtown Toronto).

Now at that time, you did not argue with or disbelieve your elders.  To their amazement, Grandpapa told them Peter communicated with him that he (Peter) had gone out to the local store, dressed in the disguise of Little Red Riding Hood and bought a package of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. Peter wanted my father to give a stick  of gum to each of his good children.

With that said, Momma’s father solemnly reached in to his  breast pocket of his blue plaid lumberjack shirt, extracted the package and passed it around from oldest to youngest, for them to each take a piece of green wrapped Spearmint Chewing Gum .

Momma never asked her sisters if they believed that yarn but I deemed my Grandpapa’s Peter Cottontail story to be totally plausible. I’ve had my eyes on the cotton-tails and know that they are nervy enough to eat the vegetables out of  Momma’s garden, staring at me, ears all a twitch, taunting me, just brazen, the lot of them.

I have no doubt that Peter would fool  the storekeeper with a disguise. What probably  is harder to compute is that Peter Cottontail would give the gum to Grandpapa to share with his kids. The deed of  buying the gum and tricking the storekeeper was believable, they are a crafty lot who could easily bamboozle the locals, but sharing their spoils, I doubt it. Certainly not the Cotton-tails in this part of the woods, who don’t even flinch when I bark and growl to try to chase them from the garden. They are of the mistaken opinion that the lettuce, the carrots, even the tulips from the flower gardens, are for their consumption and I had better get with the picture.

Momma told me about that well-loved bunny, Thumper who befriended  Bambi in the movie, helping him adjust to the reality of the forest and all of its blessings and challenges.  I am telling you, there are no Thumpers in Jakitaville, no, we got city slicker rabbits, with ra-bi-tude who look at all domestics and the Two Footed with disdain.  Since Peter Cottontail was from the Country, maybe he was that altruistic,  I am not going to totally rule it out…..because well, you know already, Ruby, Gen and I like to believe:                  

‘The truth is out there.’