We will never know the real truth. But here’s the story anyway.
So the other morning, I said to Lily, “Come on, time to feed the sheep.”
She hops in the truck, and off we go up the lane.
Didn’t even notice it at first, but you know what was missing? Rita. She always meets us at the barn, tail wagging, ready for breakfast and her GPS collar battery change. But that morning? No sign.
So Lily and I go about feeding the ewes—still nothing.
I call, “Rita!” Nothing.
Now that’s weird. I start thinking the worst—maybe she’s hurt? Maybe something went down with a coyote? So I head out of the barn and scan the pasture.
And there she is. Crouched down. Not moving.
I should’ve known right then and there what was up, but no, first thing that crossed my mind? She’s injured. I hurry out—and there she is, perfectly fine… guarding what she clearly considered her prize: a very, very dead raccoon.
Now, I’ve learned (the hard way) not to try and take these “prizes” from her bare-handed. That doesn’t end well for me. But I’ve also learned the move: head back to the barn, grab the shovel, come back with purpose.
“That’ll do, Rita. Good girl,” I say, and with one smooth scoop, I take her find and she trots off, happy as can be, right over to play with Lily.
After chores, I drove around to the other side of the farm, over on the next road, where the back half of our land stretches out. That’s actually outside Rita’s usual patrol zone—her collar keeps her to about 75 acres. I figured she couldn’t have gotten back there.
So I dispose of the raccoon, and later I tell Anne, “Hey, Rita got a raccoon this morning!”
Next morning? Same thing. Bigger raccoon.
Wednesday? Another one. Smaller.
Thursday? Yup. Again.
Friday? You guessed it.
Even Friday afternoon during shearing—another one.
At this point, I’m baffled. Where are they all coming from? I’ve never seen anything like it.
Each time, I’d head to that same back road and throw it out in the tree line. One day I show up and see ravens and even a bald eagle taking advantage of the situation.
That night, after a long day of shearing, I sit down with Anne and say, “You know, I’m really starting to wonder if Rita’s figured out her collar and is going to the neighbour’s bush or something. I can’t figure out where all these raccoons could possibly be on the farm.”
She looks at me and says, “Or maybe there were only two raccoons—one big and one small—and she’s just been bringing the same one back every day.”
Now that made me stop.
Because her collar? It just beeps now when she crosses the boundary. I leave it loose enough it doesn’t zap her anymore. Far as I know, she’s only ever been shocked once, the day we trained her, and she’s never wandered up to the house or anything.
But what do I really know?
So I took the last little raccoon, drove it all the way to the other farm—a good ten-minute drive away.
And just like that… no more raccoons.
So what actually happened? Beats me. Maybe we had a raccoon invasion. Maybe Rita’s got her own private hunting grounds out back. Or Maybe, just maybe, there were only ever two.
And one very determined dog. hmmm
Farmer Rod
