Pitter Patter

One cold windy Saturday afternoon the two of us were settled snugly with books and soft music, quiet, other than an occasional snap and crackle from the fireplace. I was deep in a biography of Hetty Green and Sweet Wife her Sunday school lesson.

I was content. Well as content as could be with the constant pitter patter of friggin squirrels at a dead gallop back and forth over our roof in their ceaseless fight over mates - breeding season, don't 'ya know....

Bounce, bang, flutter. Smack, another acorn. I'd listen as the nut gathered speed and rolled into the gutter with a tinny ping. Back to book. Repeat.

Me, "I've about had it with the darn squirrels."

"Oh, I think they're beautiful. It's just their play time." Typical, from her.

I tried, I really did try to ignore them. Pretended the squirrel antics nothing more than a minor distraction from my book. Ever so often she'd glance in my direction, with the look - as if to say, mind yourself, boy.

Bam, scamper, squeak, flutter....over and over and over. I threw the book aside and rose and walked straight into our office and grabbed my little pump Rossi. Back in the family room I went for the French doors that give to the deck...."Stephen." Like that. Just, "Stephen." All stern like, voice of authority. A rebuke.

"What?"

"No."

"No, what?"

My Sweet Wife said, "You - Will - Not - Harm - Those - Wonderful - Creatures - of - God."

I stepped outside and shot five within thirty seconds.....hand on Bible. The tree was loaded with furry fat little pieces of tasty meat. Five shots, five down. Flipped out my pocket knife and field dressed those tasty little suckers quicker than you can wink.

She didn't speak to me for an hour.

I had a nice quiet evening, with Hetty.

Stephen