His right eye has a noticeable twitch and there is a shell-shocked look to him. “Could I borrow your shotgun?” he asks.
I know he’s not a hunter, primarily from his disdain for hunting and hunters in general. Every deer season he makes the same comment. “Going to kill Bambi again?”
Pheasants, ducks, and geese have to be smuggled into the garage under cover of darkness or I suffer the neighbor’s mourning for another feathered soul taken in its prime.
“Raccoons in your garden, Dale?”
“NO!It’s those two birds right there. They won’t shut up. They’re constantly squawking, or chirping or peeping…or whatever that incredibly annoying noise is.”
He picks up a handful of rocks and begins throwing them in the enemy’s direction.
“Just when I think I’ve hit one and busted its wing, they fly away laughing at me.”
He’s panting and shaking so hard that I’m afraid he’ll have a heart attack or nervous breakdown. Or both.
“Those are killdeer, Dale. They always pretend to have a broken wing to lure you away from their nest.”
He’s jumping up and down and shrieking now.
“But there aren’t any trees!”
“They lay their eggs on the ground, Dale.” I can see he isn’t in any mood to hear about bird nesting practices. “Sure, you can use my shotgun.” I sighed. “How many shells do you…never mind, I’ll just load it for you.”
The moment he sees my Remington 12-gauge, the twitch disappears and he has the look of a man about to have a tremendous burden lifted from him. Or in this case, blown to smithereens.
“Now, Dale, before I give you this, promise me one thing.” He’s salivating and rubbing his hands together. He reminds me of the Tasmanian devil considering Bugs Bunny for his next meal. “Give me time to load the family and critters into the car and get down the road a bit.”
“Yea, yea, yea, yea.”
I believe he would have handed over the keys to his vehiclesand house, but I don’t strike bargains with crazy people holding guns.
The house emptied in record time and two of the car doors were still open by the time the Buick hit second gear. We didn’t have room for the hamster or chickens. They would have to fend for themselves.
We aren’t more than a couple miles away when the County Sheriff zips by, followed by two deputies and an ambulance. Our hearts sink.
“Poor, Puff. He’s just a baby.” Our youngest daughter sniffles.
“He’s a year old. That’s like sixty in hamster years, honey. Puff’s had a good life.” My wife hugs her. “Besides, ambulances aren’t dispatched for hamster murders.”
I put the car into a sideways slide and accelerate in the opposite direction. By the time we arrive back at the scene, the EMTs have Dale sedated. There are only two holes visible from the shotgun blasts -one through the chicken coop (all the chickens ducked), and one through Dale’s truck door. Since I only loaded two shells, that accounted for both of them. He’d been running around yelling, “Bang, Bang, Bang,” when Sheriff Bo arrived.
The deputies are sitting on the hood of their car writing the report when Dale’s wife hands me back my shotgun. She’s holding it with two fingers by the stock, kind’a like a dead squirrel she just plucked out of the rain gutter.
One of the EMTs mutters, “Man, those birds are annoying!”
“I think I winged one,” Dale moans.
Our neighbors eventually moved away. The embarrassment of Dale constantly wearing camo and stalking killdeerwith a super soaker became too much for his wife. They now live in a gated community where the restrictive covenants don’t allow birds.
We never did find the hamster.by Gary Rasmussen with 343 Comments
This blog will display some of my many writings for the world to enjoy! I’m so excited to get this blog up and going! So everyone knows I’m also having a website built to display my paintings!
Anyways.. look around and enjoy yourself!
by Gary Rasmussen with 1 Comment
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!
More information will be added soon!by Gary Rasmussen with Comments Off