The chickens started cackling and flew way up on the hillside.
Daisy, our milk cow, all but tore the barn lot up and refused to give any milk that night.
Sloppy Ann, our hog, started running in circles, squealing and grunting.
Samie wiggled and twisted. He yowled and spit, but it didn’t do him any good.
Mama was good and stout. She held him down, tight to the ground.
I ran in and put my foot on the trap spring, mashed it down, and released his foot.
With one loud squall, he scooted under the barn. After it was all over, Mama said, “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with that cat.
I think he has learned his lesson.” How wrong Mama was.
Samie was one of those nosy kind of cats. He would lie up on the red oak limbs and watch every move I made.
I found some slick little trails out in our garden down under some tall hollyhocks.
Thinking they were game trails, and not knowing they were Samie’s favorite hunting trails, I set my traps.
Samie couldn’t understand what I was doing out there, messing around his hunting territory.
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