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The heat of summer
I hate the heat and the humidity of the Midwest summer. I hate getting
up at O-dark-30 and heading a long way to do what has to be done, armed with a Ruger Mini-30 and two garage sale Coleman jugs, one with water and one to **** in. The four wheel drive is bumpy and loud, and its old carbureted pushrod engine sucks gas like a Linda Lovelace of Tokheim pumps. But I stop to get some spoiled meat, fill my thermos, and head out. The spoiled meat is laid out on the grass, covered by a half bag of Dr. Pepper syrup the gas station guy gives me. He loves songbirds too. When the sun gets high, the meat starts to too, and the kitties start prowling. Occasionally a mangy old dog comes along. We let him eat. but if he seems too greedy a shot in the ass from a BB gun sends him onward. It's nearly three hours before the ferals are onsite, and we wait patiently. The music of Brahms plays from the truck stereo quietly, seemingly having no effect on the cats either way. When the numbers are high enough, Phase Two begins. Quietly, I pull back on the operating rod of the Mini-30, its Garand-derived action not the quietest, but serviceable. A quick check for windage, the distance being figured ahead of time, and the forward mounted low power pistol scope well dialed in. I shoulder the Ruger and let out a loud HOO-YAH!!!! as I squeeze off the first round. The target, a gray tom, starts to bolt, but it's too late. It's over in less than two minutes. I get the pitchfork and start cleanup. The hole is already dug, seven to nine foot deep and the length and width of the traditional Boy Scout latrine. The day's slay-roughly forty cats, plus the bait meat and the lumps of cat ****- go in the hole. I scatter a little gravel and as I do so realize an encore is now in order from the coffee. I look around, unzip myself and pull out my medium-size member and urinate in the hole. On other occasions, I will take a good healthy **** there too, but today feel no urge. I fill in the hole carefully, having sharpened and waxed my shovel the day before, and I am huffing and puffing a little to be sure. I then tamp the dirt down, and plant a small tree seedling in the middle, and cover the sides to the left and right with grass and clover seed mix. The tree, hopefully, will thrive, and as its roots go down will draw nourishment from the catpile below. It may become a great tree and be felled, after I am dead, and be made into fine furniture or gun stocks or acoustic guitar backs and sides or antique airplane instrument panels or whatever people eighty years do with fine hardwoods. The spirit of the cats may live on this way, and the birds too, who will nest in its branches. Yes, praise the Creator of birds and cats and man, life is good. I empty the water canteen on the seeded dirt and tree, spray the Ruger's bore down with off brand WD40-alike, and pack it in its case, which is a converted Fender bass case. It's a little past noon and I'm going to pay for this in sunburn, but that's how it goes. I drive the trip home quietly, a CD of Woody Herman playing. I have done my good deed for today, I am sure, even if I never was a Boy Scout. |
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