Other wildlife that affect our existence are skunks and coons.  The skunks, being good mousers, are welcome as long as they behave themselves.  The dogs can't tolerate their presence, but eventually learn to leave them alone.

Adam remembers watching Annie taking her fourth lesson in the school of skunkology.  Catching sight of the hateful, striped kitty at the end of our driveway, she made a beeline for it.  Just as she was about to grab and dispatch it, the skunk let its foul stream fly.  It caught Annie full in the face.  She did a perfect backflip and landed on her back.  She writhed in agony, trying to erase the smell by rubbing it on the ground.  That failing, she leaped up and ran like crazy through the fields trying to keep ahead of the odor.  Two weeks cured the problem.

Only one skunk has managed to run afoul of the farm rules of peaceful co-existence.  This one gave me a bad scare.  Due to night predators like coyotes, coons and skunks, the chickens must be locked safely in their house each night.  At dusk they go in their house and fly up to the roost.  Dusk is a good time to lock them up because there's still enough light to see without having to use a flashlight.

One evening I went to the chickenhouse to gather the eggs and to shut the door.  It was fairly dark in the house, which necessitated gathering eggs from the dark nests by feel rather than by sight.  As I was about to plunge my hand into yet another nest, something made me stop.  The nest looked darker than it should.  I backed off and studied it.  Presently a head emerged—a skunk's head!  It had learned the art of stealing eggs.  Furthermore it liked the nest, and obviously had no intention of leaving.  I went outside, whooped and hollered and banged on the walls of the chickenhouse, but nothing could induce the skunk to leave.  It liked the nest, liked the eggs, and would probably have a chicken for breakfast if allowed to remain.

There was no solution to the dilemma but to execute the offender.  A single shot from a ".22" rifle dispatched the skunk.  But he, too, got off a parting shot which odorized the house for weeks afterward.

Coons are the main chickenhouse predators.  As evidenced by their tracks, they check the house nearly every night to see if someone forgot to lock the door.  Sometimes we do forget, and next morning there will be one less chicken and some very upset survivors.

One year we had more coon problems than usual.  A live trap was borrowed from the government trapper and set at the chickenhouse.  The next morning the trap held a mama coon and her cute little baby.  They created quite a sensation among the family as everyone gathered around to gawk at the captives.  Mama coon snarled and spit ferociously, warning everyone not to get too near.

Most interested of all was Annie.  She seemed to think that coons were enemies of the first degree.  Mama coon agreed.  With hackles raised and fangs bared, Annie made rushes at the cage.  Mama coon did her best through the wire cage to meet the charge with snarls and claws.

"No, Annie, no!" people were shouting, as others grabbed for her to pull her away.  Annie barked and growled, eager to fight.  Mama coon spit and growled back, perfectly willing to take up the battle.

What to do with mama coon and her half-grown baby?  It was a relief to have captured her.  She had stolen many chickens from the henhouse, and left the survivors so nervous that they were reluctant to go in their house at night.  Their muddled minds told them that nighttime in that house meant danger.  With perfect clarity of thought, they decided it would be safer to roost on the fence just outside the door.

Having mama coon out of circulation would allow peace and well-being to return to the henhouse.  Execution seemed too harsh, even though she had committed many acts of murder upon the hens.  She was, after all, simply doing what came naturally, and trying to raise her baby.

No, the only thing to do was to take her far away and release her in a new area where she could continue to live her coon life and no longer bother us.  Still spitting and calling us names, she and the cage were loaded in the back of the pickup.

Coons can travel great distances, but it was felt that a six-mile trip to the river on the other side of the valley would sufficiently confuse her that she wouldn't return to her old haunts.

Having hauled her to our destination, the cage was set on the ground, and the door was opened.  Mama coon was off like a shot, through the fence, and running across a field without a single backward glance.  Her youngster tried vainly to follow but was quickly left behind.  It ducked into the bushes and hid itself from the searchers who would have "rescued" it by recapture.

The trap was reset the next night just in case there were any more coons preying on the hens.  Next morning the trap had another occupant—a second baby coon.  This baby was promptly dubbed "Bandit" and pleadings went up to keep him.

"He'll die if we take him to the river.  He'll never find his mother, and she won't know where to look for him even if she cared.  Please, can we keep him?"

An unused doghouse was pressed into service.  A chicken-wire fence was constructed around it, and a chicken-wire roof was put over the whole thing.  The edges of the fence were buried in the ground to keep the little coon from digging out.  The pen was coon proof.

Bandit became fairly tame.  The kids fed and cared for him, and worked to make him feel at ease around them.

Annie hated him, and Bandit eyed her with great nervousness.  An uneasy truce existed between the two of them because the humans involved demanded it.  But a coon had no business being on the farm, in Annie's opinion.  When her humans weren't around she paid threatening visits to the coon pen and even tried to dig her way inside.

Bandit grew and felt comfortable around his humans.  But Bandit was a wild thing and wanted his freedom.  Also he desperately wanted away from Annie.  Annie was his biggest worry in the world.  She was a giant affliction.  Always she was right there at the fence letting him know the terrible things she'd do to him if only she could.

Bandit's big affliction turned out to be his greatest blessing.  That's the way with afflictions.  We think they're the worst things in the world that could happen to us, but if endured and handled properly, they turn out to be the answer to our prayers.

Annie's digging outside the fence in her efforts to get inside gave Bandit an idea and the means to escape.  Capitalizing on the hole already begun outside the fence, Bandit one night dug his own hole on the inside of the fence and joined his with Annie's.  In the morning, his pen was empty.  Bandit was happy back in the woods from whence he came.