Blasted Squirrels

Sunday evening, my husband and I went down to Nanny's house to fix supper for her and Pop-Pop. When we arrived, Pop-Pop was sitting on the back porch, his chair angled toward the little thicket of woods by the house. There was a shotgun laying across the arms of a nearby chair. Harley, the old black labrador retriever, was snoozing peacefully beside the back door.

"Waiting on the enemy?" I asked as I climbed the porch steps.

"Squirrel huntin'," he replied. "Blasted squirrels have et ever ta-mater on that vine," he said, nodding toward a healthy-looking tomato plant growing in a planter near the shed door. "I done shot four, but there's another'n."

My husband and I went inside the house and started to prepare supper. A few minutes later, my brother-in-law and nephew came in. We set two more places for them, put the food on the table, and called Pop-Pop in to eat. When the meal was finished, Pop-Pop went back to his vigil, taking my nephew with him. After cleaning up the dishes, I went out to join them on the porch.

We were sitting there, having some mundane conversation, when all of a sudden Pop-Pop interrupted: "There he is, Allen!"

I could not believe how very fast the next sequence of events happened. Allen, who had been sitting in the glider with his back to the woods, spitting snuff juice into the mouth of a Mountain Dew bottle, spun out of his seat, set the bottle aside, grabbed the shotgun, aimed, and fired, before I could even spot the squirrel in the trees. The shotgun blast, made from about a foot from me, nearly deafened me. Hearing the shot, Harley bailed off the porch like a young dog and began running, his nose to the ground, in ever-widening circles, probably having no idea what he was looking for.

"Missed him!" Allen hissed.

Then we saw a downward rippling through one of the trees, like something had been dropped from its upper limbs.

"Naw, you got 'im!" Pop-Pop crowed.

Allen went running toward the woods, calling for Harley. Harley disappeared into the thicket, and a few seconds later returned with a squirrel that was a little shy of fatally wounded. Allen grabbed the squirrel by the tail and whacked its head against a tree to finish it off. He held it up by the tail to inspect it. "A fat one!" he said, giving the squirrel back to Harley.

"He's full of ta-maters," Pop-Pop grunted.

Harley laid down in the yard with his trophy. I guess he's full of squirrels.

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