Day 3: Adventures in Pheasant Sitting

Further wildlife issues.

This is our domestic scene right now:

A poisonous snake patrols the front yard. A muskrat barfs sea chum onto our dock. A horny male pheasant announces his availability outside our house (he makes "an extended chicken shriek" says Mom) and there is a brown squirrel, possibly two doing suicide sprints on our roof, which, incidentally, is made of posterboard. The squirrel goes back and forth. It sounds like Fred Flintsone revving up his stone car by pattering his callused feet on paleolithic malachite. I said we should kill the pheasant. But what, are we going to become some kind of wilderness Branch Davidians, waving our rifles outside our compound and shooting everything that moves? We're surrounded. Frankly, the pheasant is probably terrified of mommy's Wimbledon-watching shrieks ("Ope! Ope! AAAAAAH! Come on, you've GOT to GET those!") and I know that snake doesn't enjoy seeing me in a bikini. We're basically living in a sort of lovingly annoyed Balky-Larry harmony.

With the squirrels in the role of the manky stewardesses, obviously.