Asparagus and Raccoon

I had to dig a hole for the coon my dad shot today.  We’re sitting in the family room after a big Sunday dinner and he says, “Let’s go up to the chicken house.”

Naturally, I figure he wants to talk privately, perhaps concerning a grave subject. 

We set out for the chicken house.  He’s wearing his dark blue Dickie work pants and light blue short sleeve Dickie work shirt, tan suspenders and hat.  He takes short steps, since his heart attack three years ago slowed him down.  So, we meander up that way through the lush spring grass.  He stops at the tool shed, fumbles around in the cobwebs for a while and comes out with a five foot shovel, hands the shovel to me without a word, grabs his hands behind his back like my papaw used to do, and we continue walking past the garden and toward the chicken house.  I’m distracted, enjoying the warm spring day.  Then it hits me, he wants me to dig a hole for a varmint he’s killed!  I figured it out, but it’s way too late. 

         So, we get to the chicken house and he unwinds the shoe string latch, reaches in behind a bale of straw, and brings out his single-shot 22 rifle.  I begin to sweat.  Apparently, my first guess was wrong.  He doesn’t say a word.  My knees shake as I follow him into the fenced lot behind the chicken house and sure enough there’s the wire cage trap with a coon jammed into it, breathing and spitting and obviously very much alive.  I perspire profusely. Dad points to an open piece of ground in the sunlight over by the chicken-wire fence.  He’s a “pointer.”  I know what he wants.  He takes that rusty rifle that he’s had for 50 years or more, a green penny under the rear sight, leans it in the forks of a sassafras sapling, then squats down to have a smoke break.  I’m digging with my back turned, thinking he will do it while I’m distracting myself, but.. oooh no.  He starts talking about farming and the weather and varmints eating his crops.  I’m still digging, slashing through rogue roots and packed earth, sweat popping off my forehead.   Then he says, “Square off the hole,” which means, “It’s deep enough.”  So, I square off the round hole.  Then he drags the trap over to the hole.  I’m about ready to go into shock, praying that he doesn’t hand the gun to me and give me the honors.  I stand a few feet away with my back turned, glancing back now and then.  He fingers around in his shirt pocket and comes out with some blue lint and a  “short” 22 bullet, pulls the bolt back and calmly inserts the round. 

He takes the rifle barrel and gently pokes the coon in the nose, talking to the coon, “Now buddy, look this way.” etc.  But the coon won’t cooperate.  The coon struggles to turn around in the tight cage so Dad turns the cage around to match the evasive maneuver, and continues to speak kindly to the wily animal, poking that rusty gun barrel in there to get the coon’s attention.  I have an incredible urge to stop my ears, but I’m holding the shovel with one hand and I figure stopping only one ear would be useless and would probably appear unmanly.  I don’t want to watch the drama.  I decide to count the white fluffy clouds sailing high overhead in the blue sky. Then suddenly, “crack!”  And that was it.  Dad says matter-of-factly, “He might kick some.”  But the coon doesn’t kick at all.  He says, “He’s out of his misery.”   And I think, “He was out of his misery before you caught him!”  He acts like he did the coon a favor!  Now he says, “I’ve killed several.  I don’t know where they keep coming from.”  Like they were finding his trap intentionally. 

He pulls up the trap door and tips the cage and the limp cargo slides neatly into the hole.  I shovel in the lose dirt and pack it down with the back of the shovel.  Then we walk around the chicken house to the garden.  He pulls out his Barlow knife and gives it to me and points at the asparagus.  Raccoons don’t like asparagus.  That’s the only thing planted back there this time of the year, asparagus and Raccoons.