A rare self portrait of a varmint killer, her beatin' stick, and her dog
Here's the deal. I can't hardly believe this one and I was there. So its taken me since earlier this summer to get the story together. And the courage to share it. So I'm just gonna blurt it out. But if the Fish and Game boys show up I'm gonna deny any involvment and call all y'all liars and malcontents.
Besides who would believe me? My only witness was Dog #1. My only proof was a garbled message to the Good Neighbors and a hurriedly written Sunday morning email to my pal and Farm Master, Bourbon Red. He knows I'm "just that crazy" so I'm pretty sure he believes me (and he gave me an “A+” for bloodlust). But the rest of you will have to judge for yourselves.
One weekend late this summer was supposed to be The Big Man's All Man, No Girls Allowed Weekend. Nothing but beer, testosterone, and motor oil. So on an unsuspecting Saturday morning he drove off on his motorcycle to the Indy Speedway to watch some race. “Bye, Honey!” and away he went. Me and the dogs were just gonna sit around the whole time and do nothing but grumble about having to do double chores. So we went about it. Saturday passed without incident.
Sunday morning started out badly. Both of the dogs were naughty and landed themselves sitting inside on their beds thinking about their bad behavior. Being alone on farm is pretty unusual. Me outside without the dogs is highly unusual. But what could happen? Right? Right.
So I was ambling along and all of a sudden the Rooster Crew started screaming and came racing up from the pond. I figured they finally saw the snake down there. But the hubub continued so I moseyed down to see what the flap was about.
And there she was.
You know who. If you've been reading long enough you know that nasty varmint who had been plaguing us the whole summer...that vile, duck killin' she-b*tch...oh... I hates that gal. But since the Fish & Game boys may be looking over my shoulder, for legality's sake, lets say it was a....ahem... “coyote” which are always in season. A small, reddish “coyote.” She killed my favorite duck, Mollee. I. Hate. Her.
She was low in the grass giving me that smarmy look. My blood boiled. I was crazed with hate and I took off running. Me. Alone. Running thru the woods. Chasing a varmint. No dog. No beatin' stick.
I did have some sense tho so I grabbed a shovel as I ran past the burn pile. The chase was on and I lit off after her. She was gaining ground so I heaved the shovel like a javelin and I knocked her down. “That's for Mollee!” I screamed at that filthy varmint as she lay in a heap.
Then realized I was standing there, unarmed, cursing a mangy cur. So I turned and ran away. Fast.
I needed reinforcements and to be armed.
So I got the dog. And then looked around for small arms. Of course, if you don't have kids you can kinda leave guns laying around anywhere so they are rarely in the magical place called “away.” So the ONE time I really needed it I couldn't find any of the firearms! So I grabbed what I could out of the garage and my beatin' stick. Titan took his position behind me and we charged down the hill.
To be sure, I would have had my big axe but since SOMEONE won't put my tools away I ended up with the smaller chicken, killin' axe. More like a hatchet. But I felt mighty fierce. I felt ready for battle since I'd been reading a book series on soldiers in the ancient Roman army. As I ran down the hill I mentally prepared for hand to hand combat. I reviewed what I'd learned about being a Roman legionary headed for battle:
Block, perry, thrust – check!
Throw your opponent off balance – check!
Stay out of your opponent's range – check!
War cry – oh forgot about that.
So I yelled my war cry, “AAGHGHGHGHGHGH”... except on me, bein' as short as I am, it was kinda like “eeeeeeeeeek!”
The dog thought that was great and stayed at my six.
We caught up with that evil varmint down by the pond. She was still down and apparently wasn't afraid of my war cry. The dog started to lurch at our foe but I commanded him to “Hold the line” so he stayed behind me.
She screamed at me.
I screamed back.
Then I cocked my arm back and threw the hatchet, hard...and I got her. Me and the dog looked at each other. “That was so cool, Momma.” Said the dog, kinda shocked. “Yeah I know.” I said, also kinda shocked.
We looked back at that varmint. I was pretty sure she was dead. Her head was flopped over and her tongue was hanging out. I wanted to make sure but I wasn't going any closer. We had to be sure.
So we ran back up the hill. I figured I'd call over to the neighbors to see if the husband could come over, bring his gun, and blast that varmint to kingdom come.
When I got their answering machine my plan was to say “Hey Bob. I just saw the family drive off but I'm hoping you might still be around. I kinda have a situation here and could really use your help.” But all hopped up on adrenaline as I was, what I actually said was:
“BOB!!! I HOPE YOU DIDNT GO TO CHURCH WITH YOUR FAMILY BECAUSE I NEED A MAN!!!”
And then hung up. Dang! That did not go right.
Well, I'd fix that later - back to the problem at hand. I still had to figure out a way to see if that varmint was dead. So me and the dog headed back down the hill. This time with a pitchfork.
Gingerly we approached the spot where I threw down my enemy and smote her ruin upon the pondside.
But she was GONE! And so was the axe.
Now, this is the part in Scooby Doo when the villian is hiding behind the tree with the axe in hand waiting for our heroes to get just a little closer.....
As I was frozen with fear the dog took off snarling. Oh whew! She had just scooted off. I called him back so I could get a clean line of sight on her and I raised the pitchfork and sited it for a final volley... but then she gave one last scream and scooted into the bramble.
So she got away....I didn't think she'd last long tho. I'm pretty sure she was mortally wounded.
But either way I didn't think she'll come back because she knows this place is guarded by an axe wielding crazy person.
Shaken and battle-weary, the dog and I trudged back up the hill. But then I kinda picked up the pace because I had to go and re-call the neighbors before they got home and explain the message on their machine. Yikes!
Next, I tried to call The Big Man but he couldn't hear a word I said at the thundering track. Well. He heard “that b*tch”, “axe”, and “got her.” All day long he thought that one of them pigz got on my last good nerve and one of them was hangin' in the garage. He was about to get a group of bikers together to ride with him to the hog roast.
Later when he got back to the motel, where he could hear me, he got the full story. Initially it was met with stunned silence. Then he said that he was coming home. That minute. Even tho he was supposed to stay another nite. Then he said that nothing I do surprises him anymore and that I was “something else.” It should have taken him about 4 hours to get home... but he made it in just about 3.
I ended up going over to the neighbors that night and we all had a good laugh. Actually my tale was initially met with stunned silence. The husband just shook his head and said that nothing I do surprises him anymore.
The youngest boy thought about it and said, “So Auntie OFG, when you went running down that hill... it was kinda like the dwarf with his axe in that Lord of the Rings movie, huh?”
“Yes, honey, I imagine it was just like that.”
So that's what happened. We haven't seen hide nor hair of that mangy cur since. The dog thinks I'm “wicked cool” and The Big Man spent the next month out there patrolling with the gun.
As for the rest of you, you may now call me by my new Viking name, “Ohiofarmgirl Bloodaxe Varmint Killer," and sings songs of my fell deeds around the campfires. And for me, I put my big axe in a convenient spot. Just in case.
I swear I don't make this stuff up.