You might be a redneck if . . .

Your husband shoots raccoons out the living room window.

Yep, the Farmer is at it again. This is same self-proclaimed non-hunter who I found sitting in a lawn chair in the back yard one summer afternoon, holding a pitchfork in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other. He was hunting moles.

Well, somebody had to. The dogs showed interest and made some exploratory digs but were a complete washout when it came to following through and actually catching moles. Probably a good thing. If the Belgians went after the moles with intent to deliver, the yard would look even worse than it does now. Which is saying quite a bit. Probably a good thing it’s still covered with snow.

In any event, we are overrun with raccoons, which isn’t unusual for farms in these parts. Raccoons are incredibly adaptable when it comes to making themselves at home in man-made structures. They live in the hayloft of the cattle barn and amidst the big round bales in the hoop building. They lived in the old granary before it came down and the Farmer has even encountered them hanging out in his silage wagon. Adorable Disney images aside, raccoons are dirty, destructive creatures that carry disease. And they poop everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. Raccoons must have invented the high fiber diet.

The Farmer and his dad spend a lot of time working to eradicate the raccoon population. They often use a live trap although the success rate there is somewhat questionable, since they catch as many barn cats as they do raccoons. The cats, they turn loose. The cats do not seem to learn anything from this, as they continue to get caught over and over. The raccoons, they dispatch humanely with a gun.

Our raccoons are fairly predictable. Or stupid (as evidenced by last summer’s catching of three raccoons in one live trap at the same time. Really, did the other two think it was a good idea to follow the first one in?). Every evening, one or two of them come ambling down the lane in front of our house. I suspect they are going over to the neighbor’s place to check out cat food leftovers.

Anyway, this is a pretty regular occurrence and since dark colored raccoons show up well against our snow pack, thus the idea to shoot them from the warmth and comfort of the house was born. It was a simple concept: see a raccoon, grab the varmint rifle, open the window and blast away.

Phoenix and I were not at home for the first couple hunting expeditions. Jamie was. The Farmer said Jamie did not approve of the rifle shots, much in the way he does not approve of thunderstorms.

Phoenix experienced his first raccoon hunting via the living room window one evening last week. It went something like this.

Me: Reading.

Farmer: Watching TV.

Jamie: Sleeping on couch.

Phoenix: Patrolling. Looking out the windows for cats.

Me: Look, here comes a raccoon!

Farmer, grabbing the gun: Get hold of the dogs!

Phoenix: INCOMING CRITTER! RED ALERT! BATTLE STATIONS!

Jamie (bolting from the room): Oh $#@! Here we go again.

Me, grabbing Phoenix by the collar: Hold still and stay out of the way.

Phoenix, bouncing up and down: LEMME GO! I WANNA GET HIM!

Me: You will absolutely NOT go raccoon chasing.

Loud rifle crack!

Farmer: D*mn. Missed.

Phoenix, dragging me across the room to where the Farmer is lining up his second shot: TURN ME LOOSE! I CAN CLEAR THAT WINDOW IN A SINGLE BOUND!

Me, through gritted teeth: That’s what I’m afraid of. What would you do with a raccoon if you caught one?

Phoenix: Does it matter? LEMME GO!

Jamie (under the kitchen table): Is it safe to come out yet?

Loud rifle crack!

Jamie: Apparently not. Maybe I should go to the basement. This is not safe.

Farmer: Got him! (Pause) What is wrong with your dog? (Strangely enough, he didn’t have to specify WHICH dog.)

Phoenix, vibrating, leaping up and down, yodeling, trying to drag me through the window, totally unfazed by rifle fire over his head: DO IT AGAIN! THIS IS SO COOL!!! I’M A HUNTIN’ DAWG!

Jamie: You are a freaking nut case.

Me: Are you done? Can I turn him loose?

Farmer: Yeah, but I’d better shut the window first.

Me: Ya think?

Phoenix: What? We’re quitting? Nooooooooo . . .

Jamie: You are all mental. If you need me I’ll be under the table for awhile.