Since I never declared war, you can't call this a surrender. I prefer to think of it as a "change of tactics." That sounds better than saying I matched wits with a raccoon and got my butt kicked.

The feud is long-running. I don't mind critters and even like to watch them frolic and play in the green, leafy glen behind my house. It's when they invade my porch and garage and eat the cat food and rearrange my tools that I take offense. And action.

Last fall I borrowed a Have-A-Heart trap (approved by PETA, I'm sure) and nailed a perpetrating possum.

I relaxed all winter, thinking peace had returned to the valley. Not hardly. This spring, the raccoon arrived with the daffodils and proceeded to drive me and the cats crazy.

Every morning I'd go outside and inspect the cats' feeding station only to find leftover food flung about and water bowls filled with dirt and debris where Mr. Coon had washed his treats before gnawing them.

I changed the feeding schedule and bowl location. Didn't work. I nailed lumber across the deck doors so the coon couldn't slither into the outdoor dining area. It hopped right over the deck rails, leaving even more nasty little footprints.

I finally said, "Enough," and bought my own trap.

I baited it with smelly sardines and waited. The first night, storms kept all the local wildlife under cover. After the second night of trapping, I arose to find a confused and cranky neighbor's cat occupying my private jail cell. All the sardines were gone.

I freed the cat and reloaded the trap. Day after day I awoke to find the food gone and the trap vacant.

Meanwhile, the raccoon attacks increased in frequency and boldness. Things got so bad the cats started wandering off after supper, leaving me to face the coon alone.

It suited the coon just fine. Some nights I'd see it wandering up, and I'd shoo it off before it played "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?"

Some nights, it sneaked past me and enjoyed some tasty treats. My wife and I both watched recently as the demonic beast danced around the food bowls, skipped over to the water dishes and soiled them thoroughly. She took pictures, but it was almost dark and they didn't turn out.

Violence seemed like the last resort, and I was leaning in that direction when I came across a story about a Washington State man who tried to solve his critter problem with a handgun and wound up doing more harm than good. To himself.

According to the Skagit Valley (WA) Herald, Larry Tenbrink's baby chickens had been going missing at an alarming rate. Each morning Tenbrink found the area around the coop covered with blood, feathers and small, evil tracks

Then, he spotted the cat-sized possum that had been doing the damage and decided to set things right.

Tenbrink grabbed his .22 caliber pistol and headed to the chickens' rescue. Unfortunately, in his haste to defend his fowl, Tenbrink pulled the trigger prematurely and shot himself in the leg.

Tenbrink recovered and plans to pursue the possum again.

I don't think I'll follow his example. I'd rather have a coon on the deck than a bullet in my body.

Maybe it's time to call a truce. I could set out special food laced with laxatives, but I'll probably just sit back and let nature run its course. If nothing else, maybe I'll get some decent wildlife pictures. Beats a gunshot wound any day.

(Send your e-mail comments to: alex@ newnan.com)