Summer drawing to a close gives me a warm fuzzy feeling for a whole host of reasons. The cool bugless evenings. The changing colors. The impending hunting seasons. The way it feels to go commando in a pair of woolies.
Last but not least, I love this time of year for the annual ritual of nasty, filthy, vile, godawful, disease riddled, toothy varmints taking up residence for the winter months in the eves of my home.
Like sand through the hourglass, these are the days of my life. At least in the fall. And I hate it.
I’ve set traps. I’ve covered openings with thick wire a trout worm couldn’t wiggle through. I’ve eaten a bunch of venison and washed it down with lots of cheap beer.
In hindsight, I’m not sure how that helped, but it sure kept the neighbors at arm’s length.
It didn’t seem to bother the varmints, though.
Nope, fact was I needed a better plan. So, while finishing off my last Milwaukee’s Best, it hit me: I’d arm my humble abode with the meanest varmint assassin I could find — the Chuck Norris of the cat world.
The type of feline that picks its teeth with piano wire, drinks from a broken mason jar and sharpens its claws with pool chalk.
The kind that can take a punch from George Foreman — or at least one of his handy fat-reducing grills.
The kind that can bury its own poo on a marble floor. You get the idea.
There was one slight fault in my infallible plan, though. When it came time to choose my attack cat, I let the girlfriend go in my sted. She came home from the shelter with not one, but two cats, because, as she put it, “I couldn’t break up sisters.”
John Gereau is managing editor of Denton Publications. His column appears regularly.