Contributing writer
There have been times when I wish I owned a gun — like the time someone hit a deer in front of my Napa Valley home and I had to watch the poor thing suffer until the Highway Patrol arrived.
“Quick, get the gun,” I wanted to say. “Let’s put this animal out of its misery.”
When the squirrels threatened to wreck the bird feeder, Tim said, “I’m getting the gun.” It was a good feeling to have someone around with a gun when the wild critters threatened to take over. “Bang,” went the gun. I grimaced and peaked out of one eye to see if the bird feeder was still standing. It was. There were no squirrels in sight. Evidently the escapee, if he did escape that is, went back and told his kin, “Stay away from Pat’s bird feeder,” because we had no more squirrels around.
I didn’t check too close, preferring to let Tim — who was a pretty good shot — take care of outdoor chores.
My dad had a gun on the farm. I supposed that he had grown up with guns around, being a Kansas boy; but I don’t know that for sure. He bought himself a 40-something and kept bullets in the bottom desk drawer.
“It’s for peppering the neighbors’ dumb dogs who love to chase my cattle,” he explained. (Mom and Dad lived in the country.) He got this gleeful look on his face.
“You should see them run. They don’t know where it’s coming from.”
He pretty much got the dogs trained to stay out of his pasture — or he got the neighbors trained when they heard the gun go off. I’m not sure which.
As we were packing to bring Mom and Dad back to Kansas, TTT said, “What do you want me to do with these guns?”
“You take them,” I said. “What would I do with a gun? I tried shooting that big one once and it liked to take my shoulder off. You can have them.”
Now that Tooltime Tim and all the guns are gone, I find myself in need of firepower.
A few months back, dogs from down the block got into my chicken house and killed a bunch of my hens.
“I’m getting a gun,” I announced.
“Get yourself a BB gun,” my friend, Don, suggested, “one with CO2.”
So I went to Wal-Mart and got myself a gun.
“I’ll teach you how to shoot it,” my cousin, Gary, said.
We set up a target in the back yard and I assumed the stance.
“Are you aiming at the target?” he wanted to know examining the gun. “I think it’s a little off,” he said, after he had shot it himself. I kept practicing.
Another set of dogs from across the street got out one evening while my chickens meandered around the yard. Another six chickens mutilated while I’m running for the gun. My poor chickens are a skittish bunch, these days. They can’t depend on me like they could Triple T.
“I think I need a holster,” I said to my sister as we worked in the garden. “It’s like I’m living in the Wild West, trying to protect my property and how do I get any work done?” I wanted to know as I sat the gun on top of a big cabbage plant to keep it out of the dirt and in plain sight.
Later that night Jess said, “Where’s your gun?” I’d left it in the garden. “I’ll go get it,” she said, and headed across the street. I could hear her mumbling in the dark, stumbling over things as she searched the cabbage row and finally calling out triumphantly, “I’ve got it.”
Friends came to visit this week. “What you need is a paint ball gun,” Justin said when he heard my story. “It won’t kill the dog, but it would certainly scare the dog and mark it.” (That’s assuming I can hit the running animal after I’ve gotten the gun from wherever I last put it!)
It’s another day in the country and today Justin is going to give me pointers about my new paint ball gun. It’s loaded. The good news is that I have bigger bullets, as I load the bubble-gum sized ammunition, with perhaps more chance of hitting my target.
The bad news is that every time I miss there’ll be a pink blotch to remind me.