Folks, we should have called it a day when we signed our citations. But, we didn’t. We were just getting started. After all the excitement, I’m sure the old busybody on the northeast corner of Oak and Maple was all tuckered out and down for a nap. If she was, she didn’t stay there.
Shotgun shells have a quantity of gunpowder that Pete figured we could use. He had seen it on TV, whereby some genius of a guy had used the black substance as a fuse to ignite a larger pile of gunpowder, creating an explosion. Pete didn’t want an explosion to blow up the gopher, but he figured that burning gasoline would be more toxic than just the fumes that were confined to the gopher’s underground home. It sounded plausible to me. Continue reading
Pete stood on his patio shoving shells into the shotgun and mumbling to himself. I was afraid to interrupt him. Actually, fear had nothing to do with it. I really wanted to see what Pete would do. I had no idea he owned a shotgun. He’s not a hunter and I would not classify an expensive long gun like that as a personal protection firearm. Pete has never mentioned owning any sort of gun or pistol, so this was all new to me. I had a front row seat and I intended on catching every second of the action packed adventure that was about to take place. It wasn’t quite noon, but a showdown was about to commence.
I had half a beer in my left hand and there was a fresh beer on the table, the one I had fetched for Pete before I lost him. The wicker chairs were calling my name, so I sat in the one closest to the beer and got comfortable. I didn’t know how long this would take and I surely didn’t want to run dry before the end of the show. After loading the gun, Pete gently sat the box of shells on the table. He turned and looked at me. He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and nodded. He had that “watch this” look about him. He did an about-face and marched towards the middle of his yard. I quietly sipped my beer.
This is where things got a bit dicey. Continue reading
Pete Johnson is my neighbor. He lives in the house on the right. The guy on the left, I wish wasn’t my neighbor, but I guess, after all these years, I have to put up with him. Not much else I can do at this point.
This story is not about that guy on the left, though. It’s about Pete, my neighbor on the right. Continue reading