Post: #1

The Smell of Determination, One Man's Journey For a Father's Approval (Part One)


It was the spring of 2006 and I was back in Alabama for the first time in two years. My father and I had decided to spend some time together. Our relationship had been strained since high school and finally it seemed we were both grown up enough to get along. I could smell the fresh air pushing out the cold of winter and the scent of freshly mowed grass made me think of spring training in football. I was anxious to see my father who had developed the hobby of landscaping/gardening and I really wanted to see the progress he'd made with his yard.

As I drove up to the house, I was struck with how beautiful Alabama can be. My father's house was right on the Tennessee river with mountains and blue sky right under the gaze of anyone who sat on his back porch. During my visit there I saw a bald eagle fishing along the river during the breaks between barges and tugboats navigating the waterway. Dad's yard however, looked like the fourth level of Hell in the Inferno of Dante. This surprised me since during my conversations on the phone with dad as I would periodically pay attention to make sure I wasn't missing anything important, dad would tell me about all the different flowers he was planting. Sure the Elephant leaves were big and green. Yes the grass was trimmed evenly all about. Of course the potted plants hanging from the house were all symmetrical and in line. Naturally the trees were pruned and allowing the perfect amount of shade. But, it was the flowers themselves that were awful. It was as if the yard's other attributes had all ganged up on the flowers out of jealousy and turned them into a hideous mutilated mockery. The contrast exacerbated the whole ugly phenomena. The azealias were like headless stalks on a medieval battlefield. The morning glory's looked as if they were hungover. The tulips were more like one-lips. And the sunflowers, my God! It seemed like someone had developed a sexual fetish for them!

"Dad!" I called in alarm as I ran to the front porch. No amount of the dead flowers had prepared me for the world weary look I saw in his face when he opened the door. His eyes were tired and saggy and red. His normally sunburned cheeks looked gaunt. He had always had crow's feet around his eyes but, that always seemed to me as a sign of his robust love of life from smiling and now...well now those crow's feet had athlete's foot.

"What the the hell happened around here?"

"Squirrels." He said tiredly."The bastards. They've taken over the yard."

My mind whirled trying to calculate the sheer number it would take of those fuzzy tailed beasts to cause this kind of mayhem. Visions of Vietnam flashed across my minds eye. All I could say to comfort him was "W-What?"

"They eat the bulbs, the seeds, whatever they can get their nasty little mouths on. They dig up the stalks. They got into the attic. Hell, they even chewed threw my brake lines after I tried to poison a couple of them." Worse than Charlie, I thought.

"Not the attic!" I exclaimed.

"It get's worse. They're having babies."

It was then that the whole grim reality hit me like a kick in the nuts. Something had to be done. I went inside and dad gave me the whole rundown. Because he was at work most of the day the yard was left defenseless. There was also the matter of his neighbor "Cliff". I knew Cliff to be an oafish brute incapable of empathy and the ability to be considerate. It seemed the slack jawed Cliff was feeding the damn varmits like pigeons in the park for his own amusement. No doubt to take a break from day time television. My ears started to burn and murderous rage welled up inside me. The only thing I could do was eat a piece of the cake sitting on the counter and contemplate how best to orchestrate sweet revenge. Action would come later.

Once the sugar hit my bloodstream and the insulin spike calmed me down I took stock of our situation. It seemed that dad had bought a .22 cal rifle (the smallest size bullet available) and had mixed success at best. Basically because of his chores around the house after he got home from work, the fading daylight, and general fatigue dad had only managed to more or less temporarily scare the squirrels up the trees for only a span of minutes at a time. It was then that he confessed to me that he hoped I would employ my military training as a special operations operative and take over his watch during the day. By "confession" I really mean he just handed me the rifle and said "Kill these damn squirrels while you're here."

I took the rifle and immediately checked the safety and cleared the chamber. This was the type of mission I was born for. I glanced over at dad who (disappointingly) seemed not to notice my dramatic steely eyed resolve. "Hey would you get me a beer out of the fridge?" He said.

That next morning I was locked and loaded and ready to kill without mercy. I grabbed my coffee, a book, and my rifle who I decided to name "Betty" to the front porch. Betty was a semi automatic Remington with iron sights and a nice walnut wood stock. She had a few scratches but, overall seemed well cared for. The squirrels ran around arrogantly oblivious to my presence. Naturally, I was insulted by their unintelligible chatter and carefree jumping from limb to limb. My attention focused on a particularly fat squirrel. No doubt his girth was the product of my father's labor. I put the sights square between his beady eyes. I slowed my breathing as I was trained to do and in between breaths I squeezed the trigger, felt the familiar bump and noise that comes with the discharge and finally exhaled. I looked on down the barrel expecting to have sent this yard demon back to the hell from which it came.

Vexingly, the only change in his routine was to stop chewing momentarily and then run up the tree to his left. Not many people know this but, squirrels will taunt you. I'm not kidding. They are little shit talking rodents who talk smack when they're behind their big tree limbs and trunks as this one was doing now. "Chit chit chit chit chit!" He leered. Many a good dog has been driven to near madness because of it. "We'll see who has the last laugh you fat bastard" I thought as I drank the rest of my coffee (it wasn't easy. Dad insists on drinking instant coffee which he describes as being "just as good as Starbucks").

I took Betty down to the river and set up a target in the sand at 50 meters distance. Obviously this was one of Dad's problems. The sights were off and needed to be zeroed in. The process to zero in a rifle is not a long one but, most people don't do it correctly. Also, most people don't know that everyone will shoot a little differently with the same rifle because each individual's point of view is different when they look down the sights. Shoulder placement, hand placement, and even facial bone structure have a bearing on how the sights must be adjusted. No doubt my strong chiseled features and firm jawline were a prominent reason for the errant round. I aimed dead center of my paper target and carefully squeezed off three rounds. The key for adjusting the sights accurately is to make sure those 3 rounds are grouped tightly. That gives you an idea of how much you have to move the sights. The first group was a full 6 inches to the right. Well no damn wonder I missed! I made the necessary adjustment and repeated the 3 round grouping process until I was putting round after round dead center. The reckoning was about to begin.

Just to be thorough, I cleaned Betty and inside and out before returning to my post. I looked for Fat Bastard but, I didn't see his unmistakable rotund belly. "No matter" I thought, and laid the sights on one of his furry brethren. A loud crack mixed with the familiar smell of gunpowder and the enemies' first casualty was marked up. Oh the bastards tried to run. But, not before I ended the day with 3 confirmed kills. I laid their bodies on the porch for dad to see when he got home. I didn't want to admit it but, a pang of guilt crept into my heart as I looked at their lifeless broken bodies. The feeling soon passed as Dad had brought home moonshine a friend of his had made. This together with his approval of my soldiering made me eager to set up the next day. War had been waged and I intended to take back my father's land.

CHECK BACK TO READ PART 2!

Post: #2

Part 2

That next morning I rose at my customary 11 a.m. I remember that Mark Twain once said something along the lines of "When someone asks me what time I wake up, I always say I wake up to a lark. Not only do they find this to be a splendid answer but, it really is no trouble at all to train a lark to wake you at a half past nine." My own working theory is that Mark Twain would approve of my ability to sleep in even later than he could. I looked out the window and noticed that the bodies that I'd laid out on the steps the day before were gone. Dad or a stray dog had probably decided to dispose of them.

After a cup of Dad's coffee (only if you use the term "coffee" loosely does it qualify), and some almonds I grabbed Betty and got her ready. From inside I could see that while my enemy was still running amok outside a certain change had taken place. They were looking over their shoulders, there was cautiousness in there movements, and I knew that they had already started to adapt.

I walked out onto the porch with Betty while the objects of my wrath scurried to and fro. The immediate area surrounding the porch was completely free of the vermin and I noticed that they were all chattering away to each other. Obviously they had decided on some course of action and were betting that their indecipherable squeaking was a code I wouldn't be able to break. It appeared to me that they probably thought that if they left the porch area alone I would leave them unmolested. What they didn't know was that I had no intention of making peace. Besides, the moment I turned my head they'd be back to business as usual. Squirrels cannot be trusted under any circumstance experience would soon teach me.

When multiple targets are presented on the field of battle it is important not to be overwhelmed by trying to take them all out. As a sniper, you must focus on where the highest concentration of the enemy is and then make a mental note of the whereabouts of each individual. Finally you must prioritize each target in such a manner that after each shot, the next target is as close as possible to the previous one. This is especially the case when the enemy is well trained because upon hearing the first shot, a well trained combatant will move as quickly as possible for cover and try and mount an offense (with the rest of his comrades if possible).

I raised Betty and took careful aim. The ring leader, Fat Bastard, had wisely chosen to stay away from the larger concentration of his minions. The fools, I wonder if they knew that they were being used as mere pawns to run interference for him. What was he up to? I reasoned that I would be able to get him another time and began to squeeze off a round. When engaging multiple targets one must never think past the initial target. If you get ahead of yourself you will likely miss. Each shot should be an isolated event in your focus that you string together. "Goodbye rodent." I heard myself breath out.

It was at that moment that the meddling cretin known as "Cliff" decided to rear his ugly head. "Why you shootin them squirrels"? he blurted.

A casual observer may not initially notice the difference but, there are very distinct dialects in the South regarding speech. One, I like to call "Southern Gentleman" has an easy relaxed pitch to it that is so seductive and pleasant sounding it brings forth images of sweet tea and rocking chairs. A speaker of Southern Gentleman has perfect grammar (aside from the debatable "ya'll ") and when entranced in conversation with such a person it is easy find yourself wanting to sip whiskey and take a nap. The other family of dialect I refer to as "Common Hillbilly". This second way of speaking sounds like a cross between a Southern accent, a Jersey accent, and chickens scratching. Cliff possessed a version of the latter that I could only politely describe as resting on the opposite end of the spectrum from Southern Gentleman.

"Them squirrels ain't done nothing to you." he finished while crossing his arms and giving me his most indignant look of disapproval. I was tempted to tell him I completely agree but, I doubted his understanding of double negatives was on par with mine. Instead, I lowered Betty and looked over. I hadn't seen Cliff since I left for the Army 6 years before but, I'm pretty sure he was wearing the same exact outfit. I was positive because, the way that button down faded red flannel parted at the end over his enormous, hairy, gut thereby framing his belly button perfectly matched the image that was seared into my brain when I first saw it. The University of Alabama Football sweatpants he wore were a bit harder for me to confirm. It seemed Cliff either had 50 matching pairs of these sweats. Or just one. I guessed he was pushing late 40s at best and probably about 6'4" closing in on 300 pounds but, curiously he appeared to have not aged at all. Even his trademark mullet was still perfectly groomed. I am ashamed to admit this but, I have always been captivated by it. It was like it had a life of it's own somehow existing independent of Cliff. While he himself was big and slovenly his black glorious locks were perfectly curled and oiled on top which then cascaded into a river of straight flawless onyx that swept across his shoulders. Each time I saw him I simultaneously wanted to burst out laughing and also ask him what his secret was. Cliff was the type who drove his pickup slow in order that someone would become irritated and pass him just so he could then yell "What's yer big fuckin hurry asshole!?" as they passed. The man simply lived for confrontation.

Earlier in my assessment of the situation, I had suspected Cliff of being sympathetic to the enemy and now those suspicions were confirmed. He was not a formidable adversary in the classic sense but, I knew he could prove troublesome nonetheless. Once dad had been invited over to another Neighbors house to watch the Alabama game on T.V. and Cliff was there also. Before, during, and after the game, Cliff made many references to his own experiences playing football and his many exploits at the U of A.
Highlights included his walking on as a freshman and winning a scholarship from the legendary Coach Bear Bryant before becoming injured and being unable to play. To look at his sheer size and listen to the earnestness with which he recounted these tales, it was almost believable. In actuality Cliff had tried out for a nearby Junior College and had failed out of school before the tryouts were even complete. In spite of all Cliff's lies I would have been able to respect him if his appearance had to do with him just not giving a damn what other people thought but, I'm pretty sure that not only did he think he looked good, he actually considered himself to be something of a ladies' man. This level of delusion could make him a dangerous foe.

"Cliff" I started, "Dad asked me to shoot these squirrels because they're getting into the house and eating all of his flowers."
"I didn't ask nothin about yer daddy, I asked what they done to you!" Cliff sneered. He clearly thought his logic was flawless. I fought back the urge to turn Betty on him and instead decided to try and battle him on his level by saying something he could relate to.

"You know how it is Cliff. When there's an offense against the family, it's like its an offense against yourself."

This seemed to momentarily shut him up even though I could see the wheels turning. He suddenly decided to change tactics. "I don't reckon the Sheriff would be too pleased if you was shootin all over other people's yards and such." he said suggestively.
I knew he was bluffing. We were out in the county, I could shoot all day out here. This veiled threat had very little bite. Sure, I couldn't go shooting squirrels in his yard but, I hadn't intended to anyway.

"Well if I see anyone shooting in your yard I'll be sure to tell you. Goodbye now."

Cliff huffed and then sauntered on back over inside his house. I resumed my vigil on the porch. I had to recalculate my attack. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and raised Betty. Fat Bastard had dropped his guard and was congregating with two other squirrels. Yes! They were close to the border of Cliff's yard but they were still on my side of the property line. I couldn't help but think that Fat Bastard was probably Cliff's spirit animal. This would really piss off my hillbilly nemesis! Suddenly Cliff emerged through the screen door and slammed it behind him sending Fat Bastard and his cronies scurrying. He began throwing corn all over his unkempt yard sporting a big smirking smile. Even if the damn Vermin had stayed in place I couldn't very likely shoot because Cliff and his huge ass were taking up a large part of the background horizon. "Just doin a little plantin." he called out as he grabbed the hose and stood there watering his yard.
I could feel my ears turning red and I vowed not to let him get to me. When Dad got home and saw that I hadn't killed any squirrels that day he gave me a disappointing glance and did not offer any off the moonshine he poured for himself. My hearted ached with frustration but, I knew any excuse would fall on deaf ears. Dad would only say that it was unmanly to complain and make excuses no matter how reasonable they were. The campaign had taken a very eerie setback on only my second day. I drank myself to sleep and promised I would wake up as early as 10 am the next morning to get a head start. This was far from over!

Post: #3

Part 3

3 weeks after that first declaration of war seemed so long ago. Battle fatigue had set in and the fog of war was thick with it's icy tendrils. I wasn't sure what a "tendril" was but, I thought possibly it was part of the octopus's tentacle family which seemed fitting if those tentacles were cold.

I never actually accomplished my goal of getting up by 10 a.m. Another testament to the ferocity of the conflict I was in the middle of. Escalation seemed to define my encounter with the enemy. At first, I was probably getting between 4-6 confirmed kills per day but, quickly the crafty rodents started to recognize the sound of the door opening and would run for cover. Nary a tuft of hair could be seen.

Initially I planned to out wait them with Betty on the porch but, hunger and thirst caused me to go back in for beer and fried chicken. Making do with the rations available, was one of the first rules to surviving a long campaign. To save time assuming my role as sentinel, I neglected the usual comforts of home by not showering and staying in my favorite dark red velvet robe (designed by Hugh Hefner tm!). Hydration was a problem between the beer and instant coffee I was drinking and sometimes my mind would play tricks on me. Branches seemed to twist and become squirrels tails. Leaves blowing in the wind looked like the tale tell signs of frolicking rodentia. At one point Dad, seeing the state that I was taxing myself, advised me to lay off the beer and whiskey but, I pointed out that the alcohol was merely a tool to help steady my aim and that if victory was what he truly wanted then, it was in his interest to let me do what I do best.

As I said, the squirrels were adjusting their raids on the flowers and the rest of the yard according to the sound of the door opening in the morning which was usually around 30 minutes after I woke up but, they were also wary of the time of day that the majority of their comrades had fallen. As a result I was forced to change the time that I went outside. This was an easy fix since I just slept in until noon or 1 p.m. Of course it was also about the time my fashion sense disabled opponent Cliff would come home for lunch from his vocation as an air conditioning repairman. The lout actually took two hours every day for lunch! ("God how lazy!" I couldn't help but mutter under my breath).

Cliff was an abysmal amateur but, I have to give him credit for his effort at trying to interject himself into the game of psychological warfare. "Ain't it almost 3 in the afternoon?" he mused while standing at the border of the property line.

I had no idea where he was going with this but, I decided to play along if only to break up the monotony of squirrel slaying.

"Depends on what time zone you're acclimated to Cliff, for example I've been on the West Coast for a while now and I sort of feel like it's earlier than that".

The ignoramus, let him ponder that little piece of information.

"But, ain't it still in the afternoon there?" he pressed.

What could this fool be driving at? This line of questioning had to be some sort of misdirection. The infuriating part was that it was actually working but, only because I had no idea what the hell he was talking about! I pretended to play coy and act aloof to his queries.

"I suppose so." I agreed ambiguously.

Cliff stayed there pretending to look thoughtful (God knows that's as close as he could actually get to being thoughtful) before saying. "Well, I reckon I better get on back to work. Nice robe by the way."

"Aha!" I thought enthusiastically as I watched Cliff adjusting his mullet in the rear view mirror of his truck before departing. The simpleton had used all the subtlety of a bull trying to seduce a cat in a China shop. He obviously wanted to know where he could get a Hugh Hefner robe ™ like mine! Good luck with that Cliff! This velvet masterpiece was a limited edition! His little plan completely backfired because it raised my moral!

Still, italso made me pity him. He had taken two huge steps. 1) he tried to confront me in a battle of wits probably knowing he stood no chance and 2) he was clearly envious of my style of dress. I couldn't blame him. Could Cliff be trying to get me to let my guard down by using offhand comments that was really just thinly veiled flattery? "No". I thought. "He lacks the sophistication to attempt that type of ruse." Still, I would remain alert. It is when a soldier becomes complacent that he is most vulnerable. I took that reminder to heart and cracked open another beer. I needed to figure out a way to work around the noise from that damn door! I might as well be banging a gong to announce my arrival. My daily kills were unimpressive, sometimes non existent. Dad would remark that perhaps I was taking things a little too seriously but, I knew that was just his way of motivating me to do better. He had a curious style of parenting.

Of course, the answer came to me all to quickly. Together with my ever conscious striving at being as efficient as possible coupled with years of battle exercises I soon concluded that the house itself would be the perfect "high hide" as the term is used in Sniper Lingo. I would simply open all the doors and windows (The French doors which opened onto the porch were conveniently located in the living room) and as long as I carried Betty fully locked and loaded with me wherever I was in the house I could shoot indiscriminately and without warning. It was the ultimate merger between surprise attacks and comfortable concealment. I planned to try it out on the couch that next day.

Dad appeared to be somewhat alarmed when I told him my plan but, eventually agreed to it as long as I didn't miss and hit the fence surrounding the porch and always picked up the bullet casings. Since I had the green light I decided to change the subject. "So Dad, what have you been doing with all of those squirrels I've been laying on the front porch steps?"

Dad looked at me quizzically for a moment before answering "I haven't done anything with them. I thought you'd been throwing them out."

He then picked up the newspaper which I knew to be my cue to let him decompress from his day at work. Dad never having been a soldier did not realize the alarming gravity of this new revelation. Were they retrieving their dead at night for burial or was there a more sinister plot transpiring at the bottom of this? I suddenly remembered that the very first squirrels I'd killed had also disappeared!

TUNE IN NEXT TIME TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS!!!!

Post: #4

FINALE

The ring leader, Fat Bastard, had consistently and successfully evaded my attempts to assassinate him. Through sheer luck and admittedly sometimes skill, my goal to thwart him had gone awry. Together with my superior instincts and natural sense of paranoia, I deduced that he was using body doubles as well as using a rudimentary but effective network system of intel. For example, he seemed to be well aware of my sleeping and drinking habits. It seemed to me that my movements were under constant observation, probably by some lookout post in one of the many trees within my father's back yard. Also, I twice shot two of his lookalikes only to realize upon closer inspection that they were not him. It boiled down to an odd game of cat and mouse.

While I was clearly better trained, he wasn't having to work around the never ending lunch breaks of that insolent whelp Cliff. The countermeasures I chose to take probably seemed a little extreme to Dad but, to me it was simply a matter of adapting and overcoming. For three days straight I stayed up later and later until I had effectively reversed the times of day I was waking up. To aid me in this transition I drank consistently and heavily as to assist how long I slept in. This in turn insured that I would stay up even later. Now I was rising around 5 am and turning in around 10 p.m. Also, during that time, I only killed 1 or 2 of the enemy so they would remain disoriented in regards to my patterns. I wouldn't categorize my adjustments as a conscious decision so much as my superior battle awareness being on auto pilot. I had to credit my strict drinking regimen. Those booze swilling Vietnam grunts all did it in all of the movies after all. Just like that, I was stalking the enemy from around 6 am until 3. Of course, by "stalking" I really mean "keeping watch while enjoying t.v. on the couch". Comfort was my one advantage, I simply had to let my cat like reflexes and killer instinct take over while I watched Judge Judy.

The only drawback to my new schedule was that instead of beginning my shift with moronic and inane comments from Cliff, it ended with them. One such comment had the problematic interloper in his usual place on the property line comparing me to the white man that would kill off all the buffalo for the sake of their hides during the frontier days. He speculated that the "Injuns" (were they around today) would be appalled by my practices. I declined to point out that the massacre of squirrels to save my father's yard was justification enough in my view. I also chose not to bring up the fact that I had once heard my Great Grandfather mention that he had heard a rumor that my family MAY have a distant descendant with Cherokee heritage or some such lineage. If that were true then I felt I had more say so on what said "Injuns" may or may not disapprove of. Of course this information would have fallen on deaf (and hairy) ears. Cliff was completely illogical.

His comment did give me one good idea. I decided to make a hat out of the pelts from the vanquished vermin. At first I was going to opt for the fedora style but, because of my inexperience with the needle, I chose to pay tribute to Davey Crockett and adopt the more simple hooded type cover but, instead of a raccoon tail mine had the squirrels tail. The contrast between my dark red velvet Hugh Hefner ™ robe and my squirrel skin hat made me look rather dashing in my opinion. Plus, I knew it pissed Cliff off to no end because now I really was just killing them and using their hides. My only regret was that because of the tardiness of Cliff's comment and the inexplicable disappearance of the bodies, I may have been able to make a Sombrero. I did think perhaps I could make some slippers later if the body count stayed up. I continued to leave the bodies out on the front porch steps so that I could find out how they were disappearing.

Dad looked at me quizzically when he first saw my new hat but, after a few weeks accepted it as part of my uniform. He only protested about my wearing it when I announced that I would be going out for resupply. I had spent so much time carrying around my rifle Betty that I felt naked without the warmth of her cradled at the ready in my arms. I decided to name my hat Bonnie since it sort of resembled a bonnet. I tried to explain to Dad that squirrels were very sensitive to the smell of soap and detergent but, he insisted and I relented to taking a shower. In exchange for this concession I negotiated that dad pay for all of the beer, whiskey, ammo, and fried chicken. It was the least he could do in my opinion since I was doing all the work. Dad pleaded with me to put on some civilian cloths but, I was afraid that if I got out of character, the fine work I had been doing would cease, therefore I refused to budge on this issue. Dad also seemed anxious for me to be out of the house for a few hours and I believe this is why he finally acquiesced.

Walmart, it turned out, was a virtual Heaven for the modern day militiaman. Not only were firearms, tobacco, and alcohol of every description and quantity available but, also ammo and all other types of outdoors gear. I noticed besides my robe, I blended in very well with my fellow patrons. Bonnie even had a few compliments. I made a mental note to tell dad upon my return about Bonnie's popularity but, I forgot as soon as I stepped in the door. Dad it seemed, had grown war weary and was pulling his best troop out of the field. Cliff, he explained, had conducted secret meetings with our fellow neighbors and had collected their signatures on a petition effectively forcing me to "cease and desist" (or some such lawyerly jargon) from any further operations. "Everybody says you're causing too much of a ruckus." Was how he put it. I was incensed by this affront. I had to plead my case. "What ruckus? A few gunshots here and there?" You had to be kidding me. Here I was on the verge of victory and this guy was talking about gunshots. I went on and pointed out the obvious. What the hell had I been fighting for all this time? Wasn't his yard and hobby at stake? Dad agreed but, then said he was worried about my "mental well being". I pushed Bonnie off my brow and onto the back of my head with my forefinger and looked dad dead in the eye. I told him he was just like the liberals in the government that made these ridiculous rules of war when they had never even been in war themselves! Dad mentioned that I had never been in war either and I told him that was beside the point. I said he was a hypocrite because he criticized the American public for losing support during the war in Iraq and here he was pulling the plug on the front lines here in his own backyard when victory was in sight! Dad countered that I couldn't even define what victory was. This sent me into a near berserk state. "I produced results!" I yelled. "You can't argue with results!" "You're worse than congress!" I ended. It was no use. Many hurtful comments that I don't care to mention were said. Let's just say that I thought dad was being rather ungrateful.

That night I cried myself to sleep. To add insult to injury dad had hidden Betty from me and confiscated all of my ammo in order to keep me from going rogue. My only comfort was nuzzling my face into Bonnie's soft fur. It was perhaps the longest night of my life. For three days I didn't come out of my room except to eat, drink, get a beer, or go to the bathroom. I may have made one or two phone calls but, that was it. I did go outside a few times but, Dad didn't know that since he was at work. I was careful to avoid Cliff since I'm sure the simpleton would be gloating. There was no sign of Fat Bastard or the others. At least the flowers were appreciative I thought to myself. If the sunflowers had been people they'd have needed some serious counseling.

The morning of the 4th day I awoke to my father yelling at the top of his lungs. The mystery of the missing dead squirrels' bodies had finally been solved. On the rural outskirts of some cities of Alabama there are problems with wild dogs. Specifically, the areas along the Tennessee river where coyotes and their wild counterparts can get into trash cans from the nearby houses and still have easy access to water and other discarded debris from fisherman. Apparently, a rather large pack of the wild dogs had been roaming through my father's yard on an almost nightly basis for some easy pickens on the stairs by the porch. Dad and I had never heard them because I was under the sleep induced coma of booze and he had taken to using twice the dose of his prescribed ambien. They had never had to go more than a day without a tasty, sumptuous, and easy meal and after 3 whole days they were sticking around to get some answers.

"Get the rifle!" Dad yelled at me where I stood in the doorway. There were at least ten of the snarling beasts surrounding his car and the front porch. Saliva dripped from the mongrels barred fangs and unnerving low growls issued forth from their starving throats. Dad had dazedly walked out the front door (as was his custom) and right into the middle of their pack. "You mean Betty?" I asked nonchalantly. "Look who needed my help now" I thought to myself. If this wasn't karma at work here I didn't know what karma was. It occurred to me that I could use this compromising situation to my advantage but, instead I quickly asked for Betty's whereabouts. Dad had hidden her in the closet pantry behind some cleaning products. He knew me pretty well in that regard at least. I grabbed her and quickly chambered a round flying out of the front door. I didn't have time to load her up but, I was betting that dad hadn't unloaded her after she was confiscated which let me know I had five shots. I raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger in quick succession, there was no time to take careful aim. Several of the wild beasts yelped loudly and lost the will to fight while the other's backed away barking angrily from the sound of the gunshots. The break in their ranks gave dad the chance he needed to run inside. Once he was inside I had enough time to reload and enter the fray once again but, by the time I returned, the would be father diners had bolted. In my excitement I had momentarily lost control of my bladder and a large stain had begun to appear on the front of my pajamas. Dad, who was in a state of shock, hadn't noticed the wet continent now appearing and asked "What's that smell?"

It was at that moment that I realized what my trip and the many measures I had taken were all about. All the many days and adventures and cycle of thoughts I had made to accomplish my mission quickly flashed through my mind. We sat in silence for a few minutes to get our bearings "That's the smell of determination." I told my father as he looked at me and grinned.

Epilogue;

After I got back to the West Coast it took a while for dad and I to start talking again. I think the emotional turmoil of the war really had taken a lot out of him. I went back to my normal routine of dressing and showering. I think dad may have blamed me somewhat for the arrival of the dogs but, at the same time I know he was grateful that I was there. When we finally did talk again I tried to tactfully inquire about whether or not he had seen Fat Bastard and he equally tactfully circumnavigated the question. My soldiering days where at a close it seemed. A few months later I got a call from my Mother and Stepfather in Georgia. They were having a hard time keeping the deer out of their crops on the 40 acres of farm and ranch land they owned. I told them I would plan to visit later that year for Christmas and see what I could do to help out.

The End

Post: #5

I'm digging this story. It reminds me of my grandpa's squirrel war stories.

Post: #6

(07-06-2012 05:50 PM)kickboxer Wrote:  I'm digging this story. It reminds me of my grandpa's squirrel war stories.

I'm glad you liked it! I had fun writing it and thought I'd share. It starts kind of slow I know..

Post: #7

(07-07-2012 11:18 AM)Fisto Wrote:  

(07-06-2012 05:50 PM)kickboxer Wrote:  I'm digging this story. It reminds me of my grandpa's squirrel war stories.

I'm glad you liked it! I had fun writing it and thought I'd share. It starts kind of slow I know..

Fisto is gonna be Author/North Dakota Brothel-in-a-trailer owner.

It's a lifestyle.

Aloha!

Post: #8

(07-07-2012 01:15 PM)Kona Wrote:  

(07-07-2012 11:18 AM)Fisto Wrote:  

(07-06-2012 05:50 PM)kickboxer Wrote:  I'm digging this story. It reminds me of my grandpa's squirrel war stories.

I'm glad you liked it! I had fun writing it and thought I'd share. It starts kind of slow I know..

Fisto is gonna be Author/North Dakota Brothel-in-a-trailer owner.

It's a lifestyle.

Aloha!

From your mouth to God's ear Kona.