August 23, 2014 – I had a run-in with a trespassing feline today. I was in my lab coat setting up an experiment to see if fireflies would shine continuously with a better battery, when a rude tomcat – the likes of which I had never seen before, sauntered across the side yard like a royal surveying his kingdom.
“May I help you,” I said tartly to the intruder while hitting the secret panic button under the nest box of Coop #3.
“Out of my way, feather butt,” he commanded. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it’s still on the list.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
He looked perturbed when I darted off behind the smelly bush, but I was actually waiting for the Safety Team to get in position. They heard my signal and took arms immediately. Tim tossed me my colander helmet and the armored vest I made last month out of leftover aluminum foil. Hens came from every direction of the chicken yard, also equipped in SWAT-like clothing and head gear. Bo boomed out of the garage with a bamboo stick that he wielded with the speed and precision of a samurai warrior. We ran at the cat with clanging pots and pans, whistles, and broomsticks. Waffles and Kellie Pickler manned the giant slingshot that we keep for exactly this reason behind the third pine tree on the left. They used stale raspberry scones as artillery. The tomcat ducked and dodged but maintained his regal arrogance.
Tim cast a glance my way. “Do you still have that bagpipe?” he mouthed.
I nodded. Brilliant idea! I ran into the shed and opened up the foot locker where I store some of my less-used treasures. I pulled out the red tartan bag and pipes and ran back to my spot. Bo was engaged in an intense staring contest with the feline. Sawyer and Maisy helped me get the bagpipe ready and when it was, I blew into it for all I was worth. It only took two rounds for the cat to cower in defeat and run off into the woods. I don’t think he’ll be back this way again.
Playing the bagpipe made me realize how much I miss it. I expressed this feeling to my flock but they quickly took it from me and locked it back up in the shed.
“It’s our secret weapon,” Bo said sternly. “You must only play it when our security is at risk!”
Oh, hooey. I know they don’t care for my playing. I’ll let them have this round, but someday soon, I’m going to tackle that airbag instrument again and I’m going to master it!
I went back to Coop #3 and played my piccolo for a while to calm my nerves. I hate cats. (Except for Mom’s kitten Holly, who is good and kind and obviously a freak in the feline world.) All other cats are pure evil; including Sugar Plum, the adult tabby who watches us from the bedroom window. Cats are trouble, I tell you. Pure trouble.