…continued from part one
Remember I told you I was raised on a farm, right? Well, I was no stranger to the non-romantic side of farm life.
Sunday was ‘chicken day’ on our family farm. My dad would get a large pot of boiling water, grab a chicken and break it’s neck with his big strong hands, then grab it by it’s feet, dunk it in the hot water and hand it to one of us. All in one swift motion. I could barely hold up that stinky wet dead chicken with my left hand as I plucked its feathers out with my right.
So I should be able to handle a few inbred cats, right?
Taking the advice from the Humane Society lady, I went to the feed store to rent a live trap and pick up a garbage can. And some cat food. I placed the trap, with an open can of cat food in it, near the murky pond on the far side of the property, and set the garbage can next to it.
It took about five minutes before the first cat was in the trap. Without thinking about it, I picked up the trap with shaking hands, set it in the water and waited for the bubbles to stop. After pulling it out of the water, I turned my head away, opened the trap door and let the wet dead cat slide into the garbage can, and quickly put the lid back on.
Repeat above steps.
It sounds crazy writing about this now, but at the time I did what I had to do. I had two cats of my own that I couldn’t bring to that infested place until it was safe for them. So I set my mind to it and it even became a bit of a game. Some of them figured out how to get into the trap and eat and get back out, so I had to outsmart them.
While coming down the driveway one day, I noticed a bunch of cats running into an old culvert. It was a pipe that was mostly buried and only about three feet long. So the next day I came with a dryer hose, backed the car up to the pipe and hooked up the hose to my exhaust.
Yes, I really did that.
I placed rocks in the culvert opening and told them I was sorry, but knew they were better off.
Between scrubbing, cleaning, painting, and garbage runs, I was killing cats. I was the crazy cat lady, but not like the ones in the stories. The very last one I shot with a shotgun. And then it was over.
By the beginning of May, I had transformed that dirty stinky place into one we could live in with our boys, and our cats and dogs. It took a lot of blood, sweat, tears and bravery to get it livable. But I did it all.
We moved in during Mother’s Day weekend, which was also my 32nd birthday.
That day my husband surprised me with the most wonderful gift. But that’s a story for another time.