It starts like this. After a glorious, week of Sundays filled with family, food and fun, I came down with a horrible cold. I don't get them very often and when I do, it's like watching the Statue of Liberty melt. I go from this really strong, outspoken, brazen person to a whimpering mollusk.
So, the dogs, who are accustomed to a pretty good walk everyday have been deprived. Lucky Man, the one who was shot last March (see story) and who is finally, after nine months, almost using his damaged leg on a regular basis, had tummies. This is a condition that is so loud it will wake you up at night. His belly growls and he becomes obsessed with eating Hackberry leaves. (Yes, I know pretty weird, but he's very specific about his herbal cures.) In winter, with the absence of these magical leaves, he resorts to eating grass.
Lucky Man pleaded with those big brown eyes of his and I caved. "Okay, big bubbie, you can go out the door and eat a little grass, but you must stay in your yard and come back within five minutes to receive your treat." It was, after all, 7:30 a.m. and I didn't think the gun-toting monster that shot my dog before would be up yet, thinking he would still be nursing his hangover. Otherwise I would never have let LM out on his own.
Not 30 seconds after letting Lucky Man out the door, I hear a loud round of gunfire. Let's just say for this mixed audience that I came unglued, certain that the same monster who shot my dog originally was now gunning him down with vehemence.
The gunfire continues. I race into the yard in my bathrobe, and find the dog peacefully eating grass in the yard. I call him. The gunfire continues. I get LM by the collar, insuring he won't bolt and the gunfire continues. It is just one house beyond our next door neighbor's. Very loud and very close. It's 7:30 a.m. remember.
With this I see my half dressed husband fly out the door, racing up the hill. The gunfire continues, rapidly, obsessively. At this point I'm pretty certain that the yahoos at the half constructed house, just one house over, got a new gun for Christmas. But the gunfire is too frenetic for this scenario. It continues. It might even be coming from multiple guns or automatic weapons. "PUT THAT DAMN GUN AWAY!" I hear my husband yell during an uncertain pause in the gunfire. With the acoustics of the lake on one side and the mountain behind us, I'm certain they hear him in the next county.
I live in an upscale neighborhood and it's 7:30 in the morning mind you.
The gunfire stops. I race the dog into the house, and Mitch follows closely behind. "Call the Sheriff," he says. I do it without compunction. The Sheriff never shows, but the contractor gets a call. An apology is issued, "it will never happen again, (yeah right); "they did it before, and I didn't think to tell them not to? (great justification form, it was done before, so that made it okay); and the kicker, "sorry we woke you."