My oldest nephew is here for the summer to work on the farm. He has hunter blood, having grown up in the jungle chasing crocodiles and snakes. While we do not have crocodiles on the farm (thank God), we do have plenty of blackbirds. They’re a nuisance of the highest order and can easily decimate a strawberry crop. The nephew, however, took a good chunk out of the population yesterday. He climbed up onto the trellis overlooking the goat pen and positioned himself among the wisteria. The blackbirds are fond of landing on the railing of the goat pen (to curse at the goats, I suppose, and to converse among themselves in slighting terms about gravity-bound creatures who cannot fly). Armed with only a modest pellet rifle, he executed fourteen of the little rascals in short order. Who knew farming could be so violent?
You need ten more, and you’re ready for next pie-baking day (singing songs of sixpences all the way).
Okay. There goes one more stereotype. I thought all guns were confiscated by Nazi’s at the Nevada and Arizona borders with California. At least that’s the rumor here in gun-toting Texas – ouch, I just sat on my .357.
Much to the horror of my daughter, my 4.5-year old grandson and I had a blast with the Daisy BB gun while he was here last month. His ears are probably back where they should be by now having been temporarily displaced by the enormous grin on his face as we decimated soda cans. No taxidermist needed.
Well, sad to say, I think that stereotype is mostly correct. California seems to get tougher and tougher each year with gun restrictions.
My little son would sure be jealous if he heard about that Daisy. One of his all-consuming goals is to get one of those. We’re doing Cub Scout camp next week, so he’ll get to spend some time on the BB range. It’ll make his year.