Well, things are back to normal here on Cinnamon Ridge -- or as normal as they ever get. I still have a chicken living in my utility room and a big orange cat living in my garage awaiting a life-altering trip to the vet, and I am still a worrywart chicken and kitty mommy. I figure that the Aussies are big enough to take care of themselves, right? Nobody has gotten treed in the past few days, but I noticed a lot of activity centered around the pump house. It is located about 100 yards uphill, just off of the paved drive but surrounded by trees. The door is supposed to be kept shut, but it isnt exactly a state-of-the-art structure. The dogs were sniffing around it, the cats were checking it out, and the door was shut. Odd. When I had a few spare minutes I determined to do some investigating. So I put on my boots and my parka and marched up the hill, trailed by several cats who were hoping for some action. They could never have dreamed what sort of action we were headed for. With Sam in the vanguard (Sissy wasnt part of the group) we headed for the pump house. Fortunately I had left the dogs locked up. The closer we got to the pump house, the more interested the cats became. They were sniffing at the unopened door and making rumbling noises that were not exactly growls but definitely were not meows. I wondered if Sissy had somehow managed to find a way in and was unable to get out. This was what I was thinking when I yanked open the pump house door. Sam charged inside and then -- Have you ever seen a cat stop in mid-leap? Neither had I, until today. Somehow that cat stopped himself in mid-air and landed on the ground, after which he beat a hasty retreat to the vicinity of my booted ankles, where he turned around and, with reinforcements handy, let out a hiss. Lucky and Callie took a few steps forward and stopped in their tracks. The hair on their backs began to stand up. What in the world was in there? Obviously it was not Sissy, and equally obviously, it was not friendly. I took a cautious look. Two beady little eyes glowed up at me from the corner near the pump, where it was warm. I took a closer look, but I did it by leaning forward instead of advancing. This was a smart move on my part. It was a porcupine. A big one. I identified the critter at the precise moment it decided that exiting the pump house was its best option. It lumbered forth, quills rattling, with that curious side-to-side waddle peculiar to porcupines. The cats had enough sense to back off...and so did the Kitty Mommy. I had heard that porcupines can shoot their quills. I didnt know if it was true and I certainly did not intend to try to find out. The porcupine gave me a venomous look as it marched past me and headed, without the slightest attempt at concealment, down the driveway. I hoped it would go into the woods, but instead it went into the motor home shed, which is open on one end. Did I pursue this critter? I should snicker not. I shut the pump house door and lead the kitty procession back to the house. I got the cats inside and told Sid about the porcupine. He advised me to avoid the motor home shed until he could check it out personally. Now I was worried. I did not want the porcupine to be hurt. I said so. My husband indignantly pointed out that it was far more likely that he might get stabbed by a quill than that the porcupine would be injured. Still, he did not want the critter spending the winter snuggled under the motor home. He assured me, in faintly acid dones, that the porculine would not be injured in any way...just located and hopefully ejected from the shed. I asked him if the porcupine would go back to the pump house where he could be warm, and followed this up with a question about what porcupines ate. Sid sat straight up and put down his magazine. He looked straight into my eyes. And he said, Dont even THINK about it.
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 06:11:34 +0000
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