I warned him about it. Even turning on the outside light didn't phase him. He even liked it because he could see what he was doing better. He just kept digging.
The walking stick my son and I made together was in the corner of the mud room. It was too short for him now; a walking cane. I grabbed it in a cloud of rage and ran out. The Coon ran away a lot faster. Just like the night before, I saw a streak and then the chime of the chain-link fence as he topped it and disapeared. He probably just sat on the slope above my head, waiting. Maybe digest a little of the baby's diaper while he watched the patio below. The night before I'd loaded the Ruger 10/22, a semi-auto for those of you interested, trembling fingers and the Federal hollow points. When I came out the door and began to point the rifle, he was already gone with the sound of the fence.
I was so mad I sailed the cane stick into the side of a barrel. The boom was almost as loud as a .22 And I 'd warned my wife she might awaken to the sound of gunfire.
"Those Coons are real smart," Dale told me, "he'll probably see you waiting for him and just wait until you go to bed."
"Great, so I'll sit in the grass and cold between 1100 and 1 PM for nothing."
"They're real smart."
The trash cans were wedged between a barbecue, the cement retaining wall, and a Little Tykes Plastic Oven. Not a permanent solution, but maybe good for a night.
I heard the sound from all the way in the livingroom over the TV. He was back, fumbling with his dinner tray. When the light was on, I saw he'd managed to pull a trashcan out from under the barbecue's side tray and was busily tearing into a bag. Once more I loaded the Ruger. When I got back to the Kitchen he was still there, but moving onto the roof of the doghouse. He'd be over the wall and gone in a moment, I knew. If I was quiet, I might make the door and get him before he left. I don't remember what I bumped into a moment later, but it wasn't quiet. I thought he'd be gone, but to my surprise was still on the Doghouse roof. We were 20 feet away seperated some wood and glass. I couldn't believe it. My hand was on the knob and he'd turned towards me, but not for the noise with his nose raised in the air; he'd discovered the other trashcan barrel, right by the door.
I opened it and half out, and half in, leveled the gun into his chest and fired.
"Murphy, Murphy; I'm hit."
He staggered off the roof painfully and slowly, something deep inside must have been damaged. In that moment I felt the sadness and despair of his life being taken by me. This needed to end as quickly as possible. I fired again and he was hit, but it was incidental to the first shot. That was the one taking him down. He made it back to the barbecue and I couldn't shoot while he stood next to the propane tank. When he was past, right by the Little Tikes Oven, I shot twice more, expecting to settle it. But he was still moving. I fired about 8 rounds then, all I had left in the mag, and he stopped. Back in the utility room I franically tried to grab the right khuk for the job. I'd make sure he was dead and could even contribute a little more data to the penetration depth of X amount of length and Y amount of weight. I'd grabbed the Movie Model but stopped, knowing if the tip hit the concrete (as it would) it would deform. So into my hands came the beat to all hell 20" AK Villager. When I got to the the Coon though, I saw he was dead.
Well, that was some night work. People who do this really should get it done with a single noise and then the lifting of the trashcan lid to deposit the body. Any neighbors awake? It sounded like I'd held off the Crips from my patio. We don't say nothing in this town. Mind our own business. Sure hope that hippie kid in the big house didn't waste his entire family though. Guess we'll know by morning.
I almost called Dispatch to ask if there'd been any reported gunfire in -__ _____ . It was me, I did it; I killed the Coon.
I tried to put his body into the trash can with a tiny ash shovel from the fireplace. He kept rolling off. He was fat and heavy. Maybe it was a She. I sure hope she didn't have any babies in there. But you know what? I'm tired of picking up the trash. Damn.
Next morning I lifted him with a glove and dropped him into the same can he'd been interested in. He was stiff and his fur held last night's rain. I saw his teeth had barred in death but in life he wasn't like that. Oh, he was mean alright; for a moment I wondered if he'd bite. But mostly he was a beautiful creature, intelligent, inventive, with a good suit of clothes; the kind I'm proud to have around. I'm glad forests have Coons.
There was trash on the Patio. The top was off the can by the door. A Coon had been feeding in there after I'd gone to bed, about 15 feet away from What's-his-Name?
munk
The walking stick my son and I made together was in the corner of the mud room. It was too short for him now; a walking cane. I grabbed it in a cloud of rage and ran out. The Coon ran away a lot faster. Just like the night before, I saw a streak and then the chime of the chain-link fence as he topped it and disapeared. He probably just sat on the slope above my head, waiting. Maybe digest a little of the baby's diaper while he watched the patio below. The night before I'd loaded the Ruger 10/22, a semi-auto for those of you interested, trembling fingers and the Federal hollow points. When I came out the door and began to point the rifle, he was already gone with the sound of the fence.
I was so mad I sailed the cane stick into the side of a barrel. The boom was almost as loud as a .22 And I 'd warned my wife she might awaken to the sound of gunfire.
"Those Coons are real smart," Dale told me, "he'll probably see you waiting for him and just wait until you go to bed."
"Great, so I'll sit in the grass and cold between 1100 and 1 PM for nothing."
"They're real smart."
The trash cans were wedged between a barbecue, the cement retaining wall, and a Little Tykes Plastic Oven. Not a permanent solution, but maybe good for a night.
I heard the sound from all the way in the livingroom over the TV. He was back, fumbling with his dinner tray. When the light was on, I saw he'd managed to pull a trashcan out from under the barbecue's side tray and was busily tearing into a bag. Once more I loaded the Ruger. When I got back to the Kitchen he was still there, but moving onto the roof of the doghouse. He'd be over the wall and gone in a moment, I knew. If I was quiet, I might make the door and get him before he left. I don't remember what I bumped into a moment later, but it wasn't quiet. I thought he'd be gone, but to my surprise was still on the Doghouse roof. We were 20 feet away seperated some wood and glass. I couldn't believe it. My hand was on the knob and he'd turned towards me, but not for the noise with his nose raised in the air; he'd discovered the other trashcan barrel, right by the door.
I opened it and half out, and half in, leveled the gun into his chest and fired.
"Murphy, Murphy; I'm hit."
He staggered off the roof painfully and slowly, something deep inside must have been damaged. In that moment I felt the sadness and despair of his life being taken by me. This needed to end as quickly as possible. I fired again and he was hit, but it was incidental to the first shot. That was the one taking him down. He made it back to the barbecue and I couldn't shoot while he stood next to the propane tank. When he was past, right by the Little Tikes Oven, I shot twice more, expecting to settle it. But he was still moving. I fired about 8 rounds then, all I had left in the mag, and he stopped. Back in the utility room I franically tried to grab the right khuk for the job. I'd make sure he was dead and could even contribute a little more data to the penetration depth of X amount of length and Y amount of weight. I'd grabbed the Movie Model but stopped, knowing if the tip hit the concrete (as it would) it would deform. So into my hands came the beat to all hell 20" AK Villager. When I got to the the Coon though, I saw he was dead.
Well, that was some night work. People who do this really should get it done with a single noise and then the lifting of the trashcan lid to deposit the body. Any neighbors awake? It sounded like I'd held off the Crips from my patio. We don't say nothing in this town. Mind our own business. Sure hope that hippie kid in the big house didn't waste his entire family though. Guess we'll know by morning.
I almost called Dispatch to ask if there'd been any reported gunfire in -__ _____ . It was me, I did it; I killed the Coon.
I tried to put his body into the trash can with a tiny ash shovel from the fireplace. He kept rolling off. He was fat and heavy. Maybe it was a She. I sure hope she didn't have any babies in there. But you know what? I'm tired of picking up the trash. Damn.
Next morning I lifted him with a glove and dropped him into the same can he'd been interested in. He was stiff and his fur held last night's rain. I saw his teeth had barred in death but in life he wasn't like that. Oh, he was mean alright; for a moment I wondered if he'd bite. But mostly he was a beautiful creature, intelligent, inventive, with a good suit of clothes; the kind I'm proud to have around. I'm glad forests have Coons.
There was trash on the Patio. The top was off the can by the door. A Coon had been feeding in there after I'd gone to bed, about 15 feet away from What's-his-Name?
munk
