I read the news today, Oh Boy.

Wild boar,

once a major threat to life and limb in England-

and therefore hunted,

and endangered by ecological factors,

were once close to extinction.

And placed on the endangered list.

Then reintroduced,

both legally and illegally.

Followed by a break-out at a farm,

which imported boar from France

to raise as food.

Followed by clandestine meetings in  the ever-increasing forest areas,

followed by many many small piglets.

Not really new to me,

since my math-hero hubby

once did a lecture on the math of population ecology.

(And for some reason, to everyone’s chagrin,

in the battle between the foxes and the rabbits,

the rabbits always won.)

This was different though-

Injured forest walkers,

house-owners with suddenly,

over night,

completely plowed up lawns-

boar like the worms, grubs, and insects.

AND… digging.

There were  boar fights,

questions about whether it is now legal to shoot-

or tazer-

wild boar.

The whole nine yards.

This,

unfortunately,

also wasn’t really new to me.

A royal hunting park here in the area,

set up in 1750,

imported giant redwoods from California.

And large parrots from south America.

And, of course,

that all-American pain in the rump-

the racoon.

Cute, furry, and with an attitude.

As the locals found out,

when a major fire set many of their collection of animals free.

The parrots, of course, flew to the local spa’s giant park.

A haven right in the heart of downtown Roulettenburg.

(see past blogs)

From there, they moved up river,

then across,

of course,

to the more attractive Gutenberg side,

where today they regularly talk to death the local flamingoes-

each with a state id card and a pension for large amounts of shrimp,

to keep them nice and pink in the winter,

And since flamingoes are apparently are very shy,

and since stress makes them less likely to eat right and turn pink,

and therefore reproduce less,

(and bring in less human visitors,

who want to see pink flamingoes)

they have to be fed more shrimp

since being nagged by the parrots.

The redwood trees,

being more fire resistant than many local trees,

survived the fire well.

And need no extra shrimp.

But the raccoons,

apparently being brought up with a sense of true American pioneer spirit,

set off across the prairie,

to that promised land,

the rich garbage cans

and luxurious parks,

of the suburbs of Roulettenburg.

From whence they flourished,

as I found out,

much to my chagrin,

when,

on being moved one day from my about-to-be-renovated classroom-

no, it wasn’t due to the blood of young college students on the walls-

If anything, it was the blood of old tired professors-

to short-term quarters

in the back rooms of a local bowling alley.

Where I found,

after hearing crashing and ripping and a strange sort of slurping sound

coming from behind the large metal doors at the back of the temporary

classroom,

was the tinned foods stuffs storage area.

And also contained,

unfortunately,

a pile of opened,

but not yet washed,

giant catsup tins.

From which,

the surprised red covered and black-masked faces

of a family of raccoons

looked up,

glared at me,

and made their move.

As did I.

Followed by a large group of Nato worker-students,

and two m.p.s

Who managed to get out before I did.

(Afterwards they claimed it

  1. wasn’t their job, and
  2. they weren’t armed to handle small animals.

Which may have been true,

but surely there must be some form of stick fighting technique,

like lifting the critters on a pole and putting them into a garbage bin,

and putting the lid on,

your could use, guys,

when confronted by

creatures with black gloves

and a black mask.

Or didn’t you all ever watch Zorro as kids?

copyright Dunnasead.co 2016

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