The Colonel begs the forgiveness of the dozen or so of you who have absolutely nothing better to do than to regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon for the lack of postage hereon of late. Forgive him, dear reader, for the transgression; it has been two weeks since the Colonel's last mind-mangling missive.
Frankly, the Colonel's been a little busy.
It is the time of year here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere in which everyone with a patch of dirt has a garden planted on it. The Colonel has two.
One garden up near the Big House, nicknamed "Li'l Gitmo" for the massive amounts of anti-critter fencing and barbed wire ringing it, has begun to produce a bumper crop of squash, 'maters, peppers, okra, and cukes. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, whose job it is to process the produce, has begun to give the Colonel the stink eye every morning as she navigates the limited floor space of the kitchen -- now further limited by buckets of fresh veggies.
She'll get over it. She has to -- the other, bigger, garden down in the bottom behind the Big House is beginning to make bountious amounts of corn, beans and melons.
The Colonel has been advised by his domino-playin' buddies that the local coon cartel, a particularly violent and rapacious masked gang, will make short work of his corn if he doesn't take some rather drastic actions to prevent their depredations.
"Colonel, dem coons'll wait right 'til you decide to pick yore corn the next day an' they'll get into yore patch that same night, pull down every stalk and take a bite outa every ear."
"Yep, if'n you 'spect to get some corn from yore patch, you gotta pick it a day before you decide to."
Given that the Colonel has notoriously bad timing, and would probably end up trying to pick his corn the day after he decided to, he's thinking a multiple-strand high-voltage electric fence is a better option.
That, and a surge of counter-critter clear and hold operations aimed at eradicating the threat.