One day, Phil and I were messing around in the yard with our bows
and arrows when one of Mommas chickens ran across the yard in
front of us. Bad move, Jack! When the chicken made its wayback to
the other side, Phil fired an arrow and missed. On the second
try, he hit the chicken right in the head.
Phil and I grabbed the dead chicken and went down to the creek
that ran behind our house. We plucked the chicken, built a fire,
and roasted it for lunch. We knew we had to eat the evidence
before Momma found out! We never told Momma we killed her
chicken, but she knew one of them was missing. She figured a fox
or stray dog killed it.
Chickens werent our only casualties. We used to hunt squirrels
with our slingshots and bows and arrowstheyve always been my
favorite game to eat. But one time we found a baby squirrel that
was still in its nest. Now, even I have a soft spot in my heart
when it comes to young critters. We brought the baby squirrel
home and fed it with an eyedropper. Somehow, the squirrel
survived and became one of our pets. It crawled up on our
shoulders and nibbled our ears every once in a while. Momma even
allowed it to stay inside and roam around the house.
We managed to keep the squirrel until the day Momma bought a new
sofa for our living room. After we moved the sofa into our house,
the squirrel crawled underneath it and wouldnt come out. It ate a
hole through one of the boards and built a nest under the
cushions. Every time someone sat on the sofa, a spring popped him
in the butt because the squirrel had pulled out all of the in the butt because the squirrel had pulled out all of the
cotton. Id never seen my momma so mad! Needless to say, the
squirrel was banished from the house and never allowed to come
back.
Being rednecks, squirrels werent our only exotic pets. One day,
Momma sent Phil and me to the store to buy a gallon of milk. On
our way, we saw a flock of pigeons sitting on the roof of a
cotton gin. We looked around and found a handful of flat rockswe
called them sailersto hurl at the pigeons. Sailers are the best
rocks to throw; if you throw them on water, theyre really good
skippers.
and arrows when one of Mommas chickens ran across the yard in
front of us. Bad move, Jack! When the chicken made its wayback to
the other side, Phil fired an arrow and missed. On the second
try, he hit the chicken right in the head.
Phil and I grabbed the dead chicken and went down to the creek
that ran behind our house. We plucked the chicken, built a fire,
and roasted it for lunch. We knew we had to eat the evidence
before Momma found out! We never told Momma we killed her
chicken, but she knew one of them was missing. She figured a fox
or stray dog killed it.
Chickens werent our only casualties. We used to hunt squirrels
with our slingshots and bows and arrowstheyve always been my
favorite game to eat. But one time we found a baby squirrel that
was still in its nest. Now, even I have a soft spot in my heart
when it comes to young critters. We brought the baby squirrel
home and fed it with an eyedropper. Somehow, the squirrel
survived and became one of our pets. It crawled up on our
shoulders and nibbled our ears every once in a while. Momma even
allowed it to stay inside and roam around the house.
We managed to keep the squirrel until the day Momma bought a new
sofa for our living room. After we moved the sofa into our house,
the squirrel crawled underneath it and wouldnt come out. It ate a
hole through one of the boards and built a nest under the
cushions. Every time someone sat on the sofa, a spring popped him
in the butt because the squirrel had pulled out all of the in the butt because the squirrel had pulled out all of the
cotton. Id never seen my momma so mad! Needless to say, the
squirrel was banished from the house and never allowed to come
back.
Being rednecks, squirrels werent our only exotic pets. One day,
Momma sent Phil and me to the store to buy a gallon of milk. On
our way, we saw a flock of pigeons sitting on the roof of a
cotton gin. We looked around and found a handful of flat rockswe
called them sailersto hurl at the pigeons. Sailers are the best
rocks to throw; if you throw them on water, theyre really good
skippers.
You throw first, I told Phil.
Nah, you throw first, he said. When you throw, theyre going to
jump up and then Im going to get me one.
I wound my arm back like Nolan Ryan and fired a rock at the
pigeons. I knew I was fixing to nail one because Id found the
perfect sailer. As the rock made its way toward the cotton gin, I
could see the pigeons getting anxious and fidgety. As the rock
started its descent, they got really nervous. It was like
artillery falling from the sky. You know what they say about
nuclear war: all pigeons are cremated equally! Just about the
time the pigeons jumped up off the roof, my rock nailed one of
them.