View from the North 40: A hunting we shall go

The rafter rats have returned, and where there’s a pigeon there’s pigeon poop, and where there’s pigeon poop there’s the potential for histoplasmosis and psittacosis. I looked it up. And I know only one preventative medicine against both the fungal and bacterial diseases, and it starts with the source.

One clear, calm morning as I was preparing to open the gate to the barn (aka searching for a spot to grab that wasn’t whitewashed), I heard two of the winged varmints cooing in the rafters. Taking matters into my own hands, I turned about face, marched into the house and fetched two shotgun shells and the shotgun, borrowed just for this purpose.

With my trusty hunting dog bouncing in anticipation at my side, I stalked back to the barn, grabbing a fist-sized rock along the way.

With my trusty hunting dog gone off chasing cottontails, I positioned myself strategically near the back side of the barn knowing full well that the pigeons are conditioned to exit this direction because I spook them this direction at least twice a day when I enter from the front.

The clever plan was to hit the barn with the rock, spooking the pigeons into a getaway flight, and shoot a pigeon or two as they rush out into the path of my shot trajectory. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity.

I scanned the area down range for safety issues and saw my horses grazing on a grassy knoll in the distance. Though they were twice as far away as the bird shot would fly I took a few more steps away from the barn and changed my shooting angle. I am a safety girl.

Too far away now to hit the broad side of the barn with an over-hand lefty throw, I flung my left arm back and with a mighty heave swung the rock forward — and whanged my hand off my coat which had flopped open, the large pocket bulging and heavy from all the fencing nails and insulators.

As the rock skittered away, pointlessly, across the ground, I performed all the usual pain-related antics and verbalizations.

The horses, seeing my distress and proximity to their feed source, somehow interpreted my every move to mean I was calling them in for breakfast. They came to me on the run. My trusty hunting dog abandoned the bunnies to come bark at the horses. And no one would leave so I could complete my duty at hand.

New plan.

I walked around to the front side ofhe barn, my merry band of nuisances milling around me all the way. While I got my trusty hunting dog carefully positioned just inside the barn — careful not to disturb pigeons — the horses got distracted cleaning up the few stalks of hay left over from the previous night.

I had hope this plan my work.

I told the dog to stay, the hay continued to bait the horses into staying and I positioned myself near the back of the barn. I was loving how this plan was coming together.

I got into a decent shooting stance, called my trusty hunting dog and waited for him to run through the barn to me — flushing the pigeons out in the process.

No pigeons. No dog. Just the sound of chaos.

I looked to my left and saw my trusty hunting dog and a flurry of horses running, barking and snorting my direction around the outside of the barn.

As the crowd of four-legged energy swarmed around me, clearly celebrating the excitement of not having a clue, three pigeons flapped their way out of the barn, wheeled once overhead to taunt me and flew off to a safe distance.

Thus ended the great hunting expedition for the day.

(I am now thinking of just naming the pigeons. What are the odds of being able to train them to poop outside at [email protected].)