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Live or Die

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At grandpa’s house for a brief visit, I barreled eagerly downstairs until I stopped in the middle. There, at the bottom of the stairs in the den, stood Grandpa. He stopped in the middle of his lesson on safety with my brother when he saw my confused face. “Go back upstairs.”

“But, what are you doing?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Is that a gun?”

“Yes. You may not touch it. Understand?”

“Can I look at it too? Why him? Why can he see it and I can’t?”

“He’s a boy. Do you understand. This is not for you. Now go upstairs. DO you understand?”

I answered, “Yes.” The fine print in the house said Grandpa hunted especially because of the two large deer heads mounted on the walls. Then, we occasionally ate the delicacy: oh, the delectable deer sausage which could transport you to another dimension.

Growing up with an understanding of the importance of supporting the second amendment, I defended it but I never shot a gun. Nope. Never held one nor learned the safety rules. After I married my husband, I had to call upon the not soo friendly neighbors when city folks would dump off strange dogs. The cops consistently told us to take care of them ourselves. Even the animal police wanted no part of it. “We are not obligated to protect you from rabid dogs, aggressive opossums and stinky skunks.”

Hubby worked long and hard hours where he could not protect us poor little dears from the bold mangy coyotes scampering about the front yard in broad daylight. We cried buckets of tears because the coyotes’ frequent prancing near the door pinned me in the house like a kidnapped victim living in fear of the returning hustlers. In fear of my children getting drug off and killed, my grip on my children glued them to my hips whenever I walked outside. Why get dirty when the beady-eyed cougars and coyotes plagued the very ground I called holy, the goats and the chickens. We attempted to rescue a corgi who taught the chickens to squat down after he herded them where he wanted them. Three packs of coyotes snatched up the 65 chickens out of the express fast food lane in less than two months.

Once the permit laws came out, hubby’s nickname changed to ‘Tevye’ as he slapped his cupped hands. Not really, but he insisted I go through all the red tape, get my permit and the training with it. “Who will protect you when I’m not around?” I grudgingly went through classes like a scared puppy. I had never held a gun like that before and it scared me. Sure, hubby had taught me some stuff, but he was always around, acting as my safety net. My permit didn’t give me the confidence nor did women dictating I stop carrying it improperly. Perhaps, I should start carrying it on my person like I had grown up with loving fathers like they had. A life altering fateful day fell upon my shoulders. I just happened to carry it. A miracle. I am glad I listened to the FATHER.

We tied a difficult milk goat near the house where she had plenty of room to roam. Days later, I stepped outside to prepare for a trip into town. Low and behold, the male goat stared at me.

“What the shellfish are you doing,” I yelled at him. “You’re not supposed to be out of your fence” Looking around, I noticed the female goat all tangled up and choking. In his pea-brained blind defense, he attempted to free her… in his own stupid idiotic way. “You’re hurting her. You moron.” I would have to get him later. Starting to untangle her, I got whacked from behind. “Oh, no, you DON’T!” I wrestled with him by grabbing his horns, G-d’s perfect handles for farmers. My tennis elbow flared, forcing me to lose the battle.

The fear of G-d left his eyes. Instantly, he held his head high while his teeth ground a finer edge on his courage. The brave little Sharkhead thought he could push me around so I ‘let’ him force me all the way to the gate. It was over 100 yards. The blind focus of him winning kept his eyes on the prize, but he instantly woke up from his cocky pleasure when I placed my butt against the door. *Swing* I pulled him in with an electric jolt of shock in his eyes.

A hole in the ground caught me by surprise. I fell. His face turned to revenge with the angel of death riding him as he stomped on me. Again. And Again. He stomped on my guts with his back legs while I steered clear of his front. He would have moved on to my chest had I not grabbed him by both his horns. The basshole goat stomped and pushed me with his horns closer to the barn and it’s entrance. Remembering my experience in wrestling and football, I used his forward thrust to use my biceps to pull myself to a scrambled standing position. Lightening struck my head like a V8 juice. My gun sat snug on my hip! I pulled it out with shaking fingers since I had not developed a comfortable attitude toward the gun, but I pointed the laser at his face.

Oh, he did not like that. Good. I glanced at the barn. Oh my G-d…. I am way too close. I hope I don’t get a ricochet, I thought to myself. There could be concrete all the way over here. Oh my cod. If I shoot him… why, hubby is working late. He can’t dress him out. I can’t drag him to the coyotes, I don’t have a truck.  Aiming to the right of him, I released the safety and pulled the trigger with my eyes wincing in pain.

The poor deranged goat peered around, reaching the conclusion, “What was that? I don’t like that.”

Inching toward the gate, I danced a few feet at a time. The evil goat saw me and so did the angel of death. They lunged at me, again. This time, I shot under him possibly nicking him in the balls. I know because he sang soprano for many months before he died in a frigid deathly winter storm. He clearly lost his will to live because when we went out there, the goat tried to attack me again. My hubby reminded him of his mistake, by yelling in his ears while holding him down.

I would not be alive today had the male goat stomped on my chest, breaking my ribs. I would have bled to death by the time help would have been called, let alone… arrived. The whole ordeal left me with weakened stomach muscles, adhesions, and locked up badder. I ended up having to catheterize myself for over a year and six stomach surgeries. Don’t sing the praises of the medical health care, they treated me worse than the mob treats a tween sex slave.

Several words and passages in the song, “Do Or Die” from my childhood haunted me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHe-SUK_eFY

Occasionally, I increase my training, pray for wisdom, constantly see security issues and scenerios. Don’t get me started on the days I do not carry because I might offend some idiot who doesn’t care if I get molested, raped, stomped on by a goat or mauled by the cougars roaming five states. What are you going to do, remove all the wild habitat? No, I get it, you want us to roll over and die so you can live in your perfect world without me.

Today, I carry for the safety of myself and my children.

Signing Off For Now,

PJae

 

 

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