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Posts: 660 | Registered: 10 April 2009Reply With Quote
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Just what I need 9 more cats Eeker


"When doing battle, seek a quick victory."
 
Posts: 4739 | Location: London England | Registered: 11 May 2003Reply With Quote
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In 1972 I lived in an old house out in the country. I was single and the house saw lots of partying. It also saw some hunting. Rabbits and deer abounded, a flock of ring-necked pheasants were nesting around the yard and there were coons. And a massive old, two-tailed, yellow feral tom. I asked around at first, thinking I could just tell someone that their cat and my pheasants were not going to work. Everyone said it was wild, and good riddance.

It took a while. The old tom cat usually came up the path, through the brambles from the field, around the same time every day just after I got home from work. His path crossed the farm road about 30 yards from my front window, straight out. He was real cautious at first. The first few times I went for the .22 he scooted real fast. I determined I would have to gain his trust. I would walk around openly and ignore him. He even tried me out, crossing the yard in plain sight while watching me like a hawk, and I just ignored him.

I set out his demise about a week in advance. I leaned the .22 against the living-room corner, and moved an old stuffed chair back-to-window, right where so I could use the top of the back as a rest. At his usual time every day I’d set, and if he didn’t show I’d just give him a pass ‘til same time next day – no sense spooking him. Finally his day arrived. I was comfortable in the chair, barrel to the fore. Old Twin-Tail came up the path, between the blackberries where he was invulnerable, and stood at the top looking out. He knew, the old rascal, but he just didn’t believe any more. Lulled into compliance, but he knew. He stopped short of the crest and seemed just about to bolt like in the old days. I flinched, hurrying the shot. It was enough. He lept straight into the air and came down on his side. I cranked another l/r hollow-point up the spout, but before I could re-aim he was up and gone deep into the blackberries.

Nobody ever saw him again, and by’n by the pheasant chicks grew up and pheasant shooting in the yard was just great. But I’ve never forgotten that old tom.
 
Posts: 42 | Registered: 01 May 2009Reply With Quote
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