The first giant bug of the season announced its presence Sunday evening on my windshield right in the centre of my vision!
Splat! Splat! Splat!
Several of its friends joined the party. It got me to reminiscing about other memorable “splats” from the recent and distant past:
Mac froze in position as he glanced out the window towards his prize vegetable garden. There was his arch-enemy nibbling away at his not-quite-ripe peas.
Woody Woodchuck had been raiding Mac’s garden with impunity for three years. It would stop right now!
With a curse, Mac grabbed the shotgun from the cabinet and dropped a couple of double ‘O’ buckshot shells in the chamber. Closing the breach, he sprang out the front door, simultaneously cocking both barrels and swinging the gun to his shoulder.
“You’re dead meat, Woody!” was his only thought.
The problem was, in the country one rarely uses the front door, only the back door. Mac simply forgot there were no steps by the front door, just a four-foot drop.
“Ka-boom-boom!” as both barrels hit the garden tiller dead on was barely separated from a “Splat! Thud” as Mac hit the dirt.
No word on Woody’s condition.
Then there was the time a group of intrepid hunters from Emu—home of some really strange birds—was on the mighty moose hunt some years back. This was before the advent of the $500,000 hunt camps complete with saunas and satellite TVs.
Back in the era when roughing it was considered “de rigeur” for the true moose hunter.
This group of adventurers was tucked in for the night in a long abandoned Mando shack. It was cold and drafty, but provided shelter and the down sleeping bags provided adequate warmth even if the floor was a trifle hard.
Except, that is, for Cec, who had brought along his air mattress and spent the better part of an hour inflating it and the rest of the pre-sleep lullaby bragging about its comfort.
Well, after a rumble of snores announced all had drifted off, the door was kicked open. In stumbled a celebrant from a neighbouring camp inquiring as to everyone’s health.
He stumbled along the cabin stepping on various sleeping souls and piles of gear. His high-powered light blinding the eyes of everyone he pinned with it.
“Get the h@#$% outta here, you idiot!” roared a half-dozen voices, though none quite ready to get up and greet the dawn still many hours off.
“Humpf! Not very neighbourly. To he$%^ with you!” slurred the obviously-inebriated intruder as he stumbled his way down the rest of the cabin and exited the far door.
“Splat!” he missed the step. In fact, he missed all of them as the stairs at that end of the cabin had long since been “borrowed” by some camp owner more in need of them than Mando.
The cries of surprise from the visitor received little sympathy.
Cec, who was sleeping fully clothed and equipped, whipped out his skinning knife and shouted, “You come back in here you SOB and I’ll stab you!”
He jabbed the 10-inch blade into the wooden floor to give emphasis to his threat.
“Whoosh!” right through his air mattress
The rest of the night was broken with giggles every time Cec groaned and turned on the hard floor.