Coyote, red fox, bobcats, and something that makes deer horny. Having enough animal issues, I went with coyote pee. In a box.

On eBay, you can bid on coyote pee in a bottle, $11 plus shipping. Since I know the mailman, I went the urine-in-a-box route. With small-town mail, better the box than the bottle.

Three-to-five days insured. Coyote urine in the mailbox. Into the kitchen, on the island, open the envelope, take out the box, rip open the top, and ... OH MY GOD ...

To Barb's horror, I've just brought the Bronx Zoo into her kitchen, and it's on her new countertop.

We are downwind of the backside of the world. Coyote smelly. It's the gym lost-and-found room in August, it's a pack of wet dogs, it's getting skunked. I've opened up a box of the powdered smell of the Middle Ages.

Even a teenage boy, a species known to create and relish smells, has left the room.

This is Hall-of-Fame stink.

And the directions say I need to squeeze the packets to release the "bouquet."

My eyes are watering, my nose is running, and the STUFF ISN'T EVEN TURNED ON.

I'm beginning to hate birds.

Outside, my son's batting glove on the one hand I can afford to lose, I squeeze. And the smell gets worse.

I've now set the pee alive. It's the fish-market dumpster, the child-care poopy pail, the monkey house with the windows closed.

And I need to tie it to the tree branch.

With a twist tie. I have the smell of hell, in a baggy.

Curly, Larry and Thurman Thomas, your sinuses are about to be cleaned.

Coyotes are a squirrel's worst nightmare, second only to all-weather tires. One sniff of coyote pee, and they will be off my tree. That's what the package says.

And it worked. For 48 hours, no squirrels, or neighbors for that matter. Just birds -- a woodpecker, doves, and finally, a cardinal, just like on the bag.

I order a book on birds of Connecticut, and one for birds of Massachusetts, in case they get lost. I buy binoculars, and to see them even better, a gazebo. Screened.

I am a birdwatcher. Happy Father's Day, three months late.

"Dad, they're back." My gut tells me, it's not the neighbors.

In my 12-months-interest-free gazebo, binoculars on high, I see Larry, sitting on the coyote pee pouch, eating seed. Curly and Thurman Thomas are on the ground, hoarding seed.

They've figured out coyotes don't live in trees.

Originally posted by phox_mulder
Does the .50 cal fit through a dime sized hole?


phox