Surviving the attack of killer shrews

Usually I am not up at 5 a.m.

But the New England Patriots were conducting a blocking drill in the barn at Cobb Manor, and I thought I would get up to make them coffee.

Well, that’s what it sounded like.

Something was in the barn making a hell of a racket. The last burglars I had made a little less noise while they stole a half gallon of Russian vodka from my kitchen, but not much less.

I heard things falling over and rolling around the cement floor. I heard something climbing the walls. Honest to God.

I opened the metal door and a grizzly bear reared on his back paws and shot towards the door where I was standing.

Well, that’s what it looked like.

Whatever it was decided to claw frantically at the metal door. I had goose bumps from head to toe. All I could think of was one of the worst movies I ever saw, “The Attack of the Killer Shrews.” Those babies were about the size of an 18-wheeler. How would an 18-wheeler get in my barn?

I was freaking out. I wanted to call the police. Hell, I wanted to call the National Guard, then the Marines.

Instead, I called Blue Eyes, who is not only always right, but she knows more about animals than anyone I know. She subscribes to about 363 animal magazines and donates about $12,000 to animal causes every year. Her credit card has an endangered gorilla on it. Not me, a real gorilla.

She said, “Just open the barn door to the outside, then run like hell.”

Easy for her to say, living eight miles away, nice and safe.

With every hair on edge, I walked to the barn, opened the outside door and ran (well, waddled real fast) like hell to the house. I heard footsteps behind me. They (the 40-foot shrews or grizzly bears) were gaining as I approached the stairs. I was always the world’s slowest human, and this time, it could have cost me my life.

Somehow, I made it to the kitchen door and slammed it behind me. Now, I could call the police, game wardens and the state police SWAT team to kill the beast.

Standing on the porch, peering in through the window, was the smallest and fattest raccoon you have ever seen. He peered in for a while, determined that he was not going to get fed, then waddled off toward the woods.

After a prolonged investigation, I determined that the coon had forced his way in through the same door I let him out, but could not squeeze back out. Instead, he tried to claw his way out another door, tearing off about 4 inches of wall. There was a pile of wood that looked like it came from an electric router. No wonder he woke me up.

Blue Eyes determined that it was all my fault because I go to the dump about twice a year (same number of times I mow the lawn), and the smell of all that rotting food attracted him to the barn.

I knew it would be all my fault, because it always is. I just didn’t know quite how.

Like I said: Blue Eyes is always right.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.