Here we are, just a few days before our delicious, sweet Rainier cherries are ripe enough for human consumption…and this happens. I spotted the little furry bandit after he’d cleaned out an entire tree except for one last bunch hanging just out of reach. Every time he reached for it, the branch he was standing on would start bending and threatening to break; the little guy was clearly in a quandary.
Weston came out and we tried scaring the “rat-coon” away by yelling and making threatening gestures. He glanced at us over his shoulder, rolled his eyes in disdain, and continued trying to solve the puzzle of good eats on a branch too thin. I threw some driveway gravel at him, and again, the look of disdain.
Weston brought out the slingshot. He loaded it with a little rock and fired. Miss, low. No reaction from Mr. Furball. Another shot. Miss, high. Still no reaction. Finally, Weston reared back and let fly right in the middle and the rock found furry forehead. THWACK! Ol’ Fuzzy leaped up in surprise and landed farther out on the branch, which promptly swayed downward, cracking. He shot us a dirty look and let go, and as he dropped through the air, he reached out, snagged the last bunch of cherries, and hit the ground on three legs. He paused there, looking right at us, then stuffed the cherries in his mouth and sauntered into the woods. Have a nice day!