A man at the auction barn was unloading pigs out of my trailer. It is a blue horse trailer, but I use it to deliver pigs. The man said, “They sure gave you hell driving away.”
“What? Who did? ” I said.
“Whoever you stole these pigs from,” he said. He pointed at the bullet holes in the back of my trailer and laughed.
“Just unload the pigs, buddy. Thanks.”
My trailer is full of bullet holes because of the bobcats. For a while, I had a problem with bobcats eating my chickens. They took a lot of chickens. I think they were filling up a deep-freezer in their bobcat den and barbequing chickens on Sunday.
I locked up the chickens in my blue horse trailer and wired fencing material around every opening. This was only a temporary measure, until I could figure out how to capture and relocate the bobcats.
I did not want to kill the bobcats. I have the right, ethically and legally, to assassinate any bobcats who are eating my chickens. Most farmers would shoot them on sight.
But I don’t want to kill bobcats, or alligators, or coyotes, or raccoons, or hawks, or any of the predators who eat the majority of my chickens. I love all my animals, domestic and wild, predator and prey. My job is to make it difficult or impossible for predators to eat my chickens, or to safely remove the predators. That way, everyone is happy and nobody gets killed. Well, the chickens get killed by all of us, but they are stupid; and delicious.
Anyway, I had to go out of town, and I asked Dad to keep an eye on the chickens. I told him, “DO NOT shoot the bobcats. When I get back, I’ll figure out how to capture and relocate them, alive”. Dad said okay, not to worry.
“You said not to kill them. I didn’t kill them. But you didn’t say not to scare the crap out of them,” he said. When the bobcats were trying to tear off the fencing to get inside to the chickens, Dad shot up the trailer with a Desert Eagle .357 magnum that I had given him for Father’s Day.
The Desert Eagle seemed to work. The bobcats quit hanging around my chicken trailer. I’m sure they gave Dad the middle claw, if you know what I’m saying, on their way out of town.
The point is, if you know any little gang-banger wannabe punks who drive around Rockport with bullet hole stickers on their cars, send them to my farm. We put real bullet holes in vehicles around here. That ought to straighten them up.