Don't mess with the hard-hearted

One thing you have to learn when you live in the country with pets, livestock and all manner of wild critters doing their call-of-nature things, you have to harden your heart to handle this life's realities.

My husband, John, grew up on a farm and ranch operation so he knows this well, yet somehow he's managed to preserve this big, soft-hearted, squishy, I-don't-wanna-be-mean center where his toughened-up heart is supposed to be.

Pam Burke

Of course, you know who has to be the bad guy then. That's right. Me.

And people think because I'm all sarcastic and kind of — let's say — bratty, that I'm cold, hard and shoe-leathery on the inside, but I have feelings. Unexpressed feelings. Deep inside. Like at the center of a convoluted and confusing maze of barbed wire-topped walls and booby traps. And hidden doorways. And clown-faced jack-in-the-boxes lurking around dark corners.

At the center of this maze is my heart, like a shiny jewel … no, that's hard and expensive ... like a fresh marshmallow … no, too sticky and sweet ... like a teeny, tiny pile of fresh horse apples. That's what it is. My heart is warm and steamy and smells like the great outdoors, barnyard-style.

And I have to be the bad guy, equipped with this heart.

I tell you all this so you will not be shocked by the story which I am about to tell you.

Last week, for the first time in the 24 years I've lived on the North 40, I had a raccoon problem. The culprit entered my tack shed through a hole one of my overly playful horses kicked high in the door. I had been waiting for the weekend to fix it, but in the meantime, the raccoon made itself at home, tipping over and rummaging through my feed bins in an orgy of grain and feed pellets.

This did not make me happy.

I cleaned up the mess and replaced the board. And hoped that I was rid of the varmint.

It had other plans.

The raccoon feasted on cat food from the shop for a few days, until he was sufficiently fortified to climb up the shed wall to pull, pry and yank — dangling 7 feet off the ground — that board off the shed again, putting horse feed back on the menu ... as was the big mess, which I'm certain a fresh herd of mice absolutely gloried in.

Tred of cleaning up after that raccoon, I borrowed a live trap from my neighbor and caught the varmint one the night, then set out to take care of the problem before work that next morning.

"John, bring me a pistol," I said.

And I know what you're thinking, "Ooooh, but raccoons are so cuuuute!"

Right. The truth is, though, they're only cute in the movies. Walt Disney and gang are big fat liars. Remember that, for your heart's sake

Raccoons are messy, destructive, dog and cat terrorizing menaces in real life. Remember that, too.

"What are you going to do with it?" John said, all hang-dog and sad-eyed. He can't even scold the dog enough to make him lay his ears back in remorse.

Discussion ensued, but I will spare you the details and my sheer aggravation at being talked into taking care of this dirty deed John's way, off the property.

Nevertheless, we drove to a secluded area, where I unloaded the caged raccoon from the pickup truck, took one look at John's distraught face, and said, "Fine, I'll take care of it!"

And I did — with efficiency. Don't look at me that way. That raccoon pooped all over the floor of my shed. Don't forget that. They get rabies, too. No one, but the tough-hearted, talks about that.

So I gave that raccoon what it had coming: a stern talkin' to before releasing it back to the wild.

I tell you what, it had better remember what I said, too, because if it comes back, it'll be in deep trouble. Someone will be getting a time out, mister.

I always have to be the bad guy.