Barn Rage

[Howard4567@aol.com]

BARN RAGE
by Rookie Rider

I had gotten up early one Saturday morning, went out to the barn to feed the 
horses and clean up a little (little being the optimum word here), and, as I 
bent down to pick up the feed bag, the dang thing just opened up on me.  Out 
from the bottom, all the contents spilled out on the floor.  50 lbs. of feed, 
or more like 40, cause someone, or something, had eaten at least ten pounds 
from the bottom of the bag.  

So right off I'm thinking rats or something nasty like that.  Maybe a raccoon 
or a possum, but, hey, I'm just guessin here.  I know I gotta do something 
about it cause the feed's expensive, and since I don't have any money left 
after that clipboard lady's lawyer took me to court for running her over with 
my horse, it looks like I gotta turn hunter and kill this creature.  After 
all, he is stealing from me and my horses.  

This thought displeases me cause I like hunters even less than I like 
lawyers.  I mean, who wants to be part of a group whose main claim to fame is 
they shot Bambi's Mom or killed Thumper?  And how many hunters really enjoy 
having us equestrians sharing their killing field with them, scattering game 
and wildlife so Bubba can't find em and shoot em?  To you non-hunters named 
Bubba (are there any?) I apologize.  

But I realize, before I decide whether I'm going to kill anything, I've got 
to find out what it is I might have to kill.  Murder's not really a part of 
my normal thinking, I'm really quite a pacifist.  I've never really wanted to 
take the life of any living creature, except maybe my bloodsucking ex-wife, 
her lawyer, her father, her sister, and maybe one or two of her brothers. And 
even with them it was only a passing thought, except for that ad I put in 
Soldier of Fortune magazine.  But nothing ever came of it, those professional 
soldiers wanted way too much money.

While I'm standing there, in my tack room, deciding whether or not to put on 
my old camouflage fatigues left over from my military days (yea, I'm sure 
they'll still fit), I hear this chuckling, animalistic, clicking noise coming 
from above.  Now how does a rat end up in my rafters?  I look up and see the 
culprit, the living target for my bullet (if only I had a gun).  And damn if 
it doesn't look like he's laughing at me and just staring me down, with that 
tiny black eye on the side of his face.  And to top it off, he's eating some 
of that sweet feed he stole from my bag, looking content as he can be.  If he 
had a TV and a beer he'd look way too familiar.  He then takes his eye off of 
me and looks down at the remaining feed I spilled on the floor.  Like its 
just a matter of time before he eats that too.

Yea, you guessed it, the crook is a squirrel.  A normally harmless, friendly 
creature that most people adore.  As angry as I am from the bag of spilled 
feed, I had to admit to myself he is kinda cute.  And let's face it, the only 
weapon I have in the house is that old shotgun my Grandfather gave me and if 
I tried to kill this squirrel with it I know I'd end up blowing a large hole 
in the wall of my barn. So, what do I do?

And then it comes to me.  Teenager!  I know teenager is dangerous and he's 
got just what I need to fix this problem.  So I look up at the squirrel, ask 
him to wait, I'll be right back, and slowly proceed back to the house.  Now 
I'm in teenager's room (man does it smell in here, kinda like a cross between 
a football locker room and a port-a-pottie that has been out in the summer 
sun way too long) looking for my weapon of destruction.  The search becomes 
endless.  Clothes everywhere, all on the floor, even the clean ones that have 
just been washed.  Gum wrappers, candybar wrappers, dinner plates with food 
still on them, cups, spoons, CD's opened and out of the container, a Playboy 
that I never knew was missing, letters and pictures from girls (this one 
looks interesting), more food, that bag of peanuts I had bought for myself 
last week, and just everything else you can think of to let you know you are 
in a foreign land and really should not be here.  But I don't let any of it 
distract me from my goal, my objective.  The only thing that could do this 
would be something like a condom, but luckily, I don't find one.  And if I do 
find one, I pray that it's still in the wrapper.  

And then I find it.  It's one of the few things that is actually in his chest 
of drawers.  Certainly, no clothes are in there.  I grab it and start to head 
out, but realize I need ammo.  So I look for some, and in the drawer below I 
find it.   Too easy.   Lady Luck is smiling on me today.  So off I go, to 
finish the job, and to do it in a way where I can look myself in the mirror 
later and say, "Me no kill squirrel."

Back to the barn I run, with the BB gun in one hand, and a container of BBs 
in another.  I don't want to kill the guy.  Just scare him and let him know 
that horse feed is not squirrel feed and he has to go out and obtain his nuts 
legally, just like the rest of us.  As I enter the tack room there he is.  He 
waited for me,  like I asked, but damn if he isn't just sitting there lapping 
up the feed off of the concrete floor.  He spots me, grabs a handful (they 
look like claw-hands actually) and scoots up the wall (how does he do that?), 
defying gravity, and goes back to his roost in my rafters, giving me the evil 
eye and the toothy grin.  

So I load the gun.  Or try to but end up spilling BB's all over the floor.  
As I bend over to pick them up the entire container of one thousand BB's 
spills out and ends up right in the 40 pounds of feed.  I'm cursing now.  
Lady Luck just gave me the finger.  I bend over and try and smooth out the 
sticky feed from each individual BB, realizing this will probably jam up some 
BB gun mechanism and cause all kinds of damage.  But since the gun was one of 
those mistake purchases that you buy for your boy to show him how cool you 
are, I continue on, not really caring if I damage it or not.

I get about ten sticky BBs into the gun, shake it like teenager taught me, 
cock it and aim at my rodent looking friend.  I have him right in my sights, 
steady my shaking hand and fire.  The gun makes a noise, but nothing comes 
out.  No BB.  Damn.  I start cursing again.  I shake the gun again, even 
harder than last time, cock it, aim, amazed that he's still there grinning at 
me like the Cheshire Cat, and fire.  This time a BB comes out.  Yessssss.  
But I miss and it hits the wood beam below the rafter, the BB rebounds right 
back at me, hits my right eye glass lens and shatters it.  Man, they weren't 
kidding when they tell you these things can put your eye out.

Now I'm really mad.  This ordeal has gone from minor skirmish to total war.  
I'm really torked.  My pacifism magically leaves my body and in comes this 
form of barn rage, that Californians and Floridians can identify with when on 
the highway.  I had just purchased those glasses at Walmart only three years 
ago; they were still like new.  I guess I should be grateful that nothing 
went into my eye, but I'm too mad to be happy about anything right now.  So I 
proceed with my next tactical operation.  I grab a handful of feed, mixed 
with BBs, and throw it at him.  Some of it actually hits him.  He scurries 
off along the rafters towards the horse stalls.  I lay the remains of my 
glasses down, pick up the BB gun, and go after him.  It doesn't dawn on me 
that, since I'm severely nearsighted, I have about as much chance of hitting 
him as a NATO pilot bombing and actually hitting the Serbian military.  The 
squirrel chase is on, let the games begin...............

  



  



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