Silvercrow1
08-10-2013, 05:58 AM
He had always been a “protector”. Even as a child, he risked ridicule, and more than one black eye, for the sake of undertaking the cause of the less fortunate. Keeping the playing field level; helping the underdog up; gallantry when it came to those of the female persuasion…
So it was that he felt the call again, to protect that which was graciously given him. A small plot of land at the rear of his home. A “backyard” yes, but more than that. A veritable oasis with beautiful landscaping painstakingly planned by his wife, the house “Chief” and executed by him and her together, side by side.
Threatened now and again by interlopers looking to harass, harangue and generally terrorize the peaceful creatures that sought solace and sustenance in this idyllic haven, he stood staunch against potential mayhem. The songbirds; the woodpecker (three varieties!); the mourning dove and a host of other interesting inhabitants all coexisted with the protector and all, human and non-human, enjoyed this refuge.
He looked out over the small expanse. Peaceful. Almost always was at 6AM. Could it be that just a mere two weeks ago, the notorious Starling gang, quiet for the past few summers, had rallied and took the back yard by storm? He had become accustomed to the tranquility. The sudden call to action took him cold, but, trained and true in his craft, he had dispatched six of the gang members, two of them with head shots, which no doubt caused some trembling even in those hardened Starling members.
One of those taken, a certain Starlamma El Seedstealer, gut shot while perched on the feeder where he took his last earthly meal, upon receiving the dose of lead, flew up and quartered away, only to collapse in the alley, where he was promptly run over by a neighbor going to work! The protector smiled at the thought.
Suddenly, his reverie was broken, and the protector was instantly on full alert. A flash of gray, over near the corkscrew pine. His eyes narrowed, pulse quickening ever so slightly. From his high vantage point on the second floor, he had a command view of the “area”. The words of the Chief rang in his ears, “No collateral damage, to anything living or inanimate! And PLEASE, don’t forget to pick up the bodies!” He smiled again, remembering a particular terra-cotta pot that had been rendered useless by a misaligned shot…a dead squirrel forgotten, teetering on the fence…
There! Creeping low and wary, a young gray squirrel- the “Al Queada” of local woodlands- maker of messes; disturber of solace, an obnoxious pest, was slowly making his way to the food-stores.
Fire lanes were few, narrow and treacherous in the protector’s assigned area. But God had given him skill AND he had the proper tools. He slowly shouldered the Savage MK II, 22LR. As beautiful as it was deadly, it was a lustrous blue, adorned with a walnut thumbhole stock and topped by an adequate Nikon Prostaff Rimfire telescopic sight..a veritable killing machine. Savage..he liked the name, loved the looks, even better the accuracy!
22” of laser-straight barrel transected the open window frame. In the previous skirmish with the Starlings, that barrel had carried 40 grain lead projectiles straight to the target. The CCI “Quiet” rounds were just that: quiet! Accuracy sufficient at these short ranges and unobtrusive enough that few, if any, neighbors knew that evil was being vanquished right next door. A good round and at 710 FPS, not likely to become a liability. Of course, extreme care was always taken; the protector was not a “cowboy” as he was in his youth.
The squirrel, apparently satisfied he was safe, sprung upon an ornamental wooden stump, frightening away two small female cardinals. Helping himself to the feast set out for the friendly birds, he began to gorge himself. Simultaneously, a mere 30 feet away, a set of crosshairs were hovering around his head and neck.
The protector consciously controlled his breathing, and steadied himself. In what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only a few scant seconds, his finger began to steadily squeeze the trigger. A mere three pounds of pressure required, the protector relished the creep-free trigger mechanism.
A sudden movement by the squirrel, for no apparent reason, caused the “view” through the scope to be altered, the “enemy” now quartering away. No matter; the crosshairs almost instantly adjusted, now aiming along the insurgent’s left flank, slightly rear of its “shoulder”. In the natural pause between breaths, the protector drew the trigger tight. A “snap”, little more than the sound of an air rifle, heralded the arrival of a 40 grain pill the squirrel unwittingly took subcutaneously.
As if an electrical charge was suddenly applied to the squirrel, he jumped into the air and followed that opening acrobatic by doing what the protector liked to call the “dying quiver break dance”. Hopping around rapidly; at a moment seeming to defy gravity, the squirrel performed admirably; a certain 8 out of 10 scoring, he finished by a rapid side-step-scamper to the “border” gate, threw himself against it and landed in a heap, miraculously on the other side.
‘No neighboring vehicle to run him over this day, he expired with a definite look of consternation on his rodent-like face.
Keeping his word, the protector picked him up, examined him briefly, and then unceremoniously threw him into the woods at the front of the house, where he would become food for the predators that roamed there.
“The circle of life”, the protector snickered, as he prepared his second cup of morning coffee.
Brian- Hope you all enjoyed this. My mind is warped...
So it was that he felt the call again, to protect that which was graciously given him. A small plot of land at the rear of his home. A “backyard” yes, but more than that. A veritable oasis with beautiful landscaping painstakingly planned by his wife, the house “Chief” and executed by him and her together, side by side.
Threatened now and again by interlopers looking to harass, harangue and generally terrorize the peaceful creatures that sought solace and sustenance in this idyllic haven, he stood staunch against potential mayhem. The songbirds; the woodpecker (three varieties!); the mourning dove and a host of other interesting inhabitants all coexisted with the protector and all, human and non-human, enjoyed this refuge.
He looked out over the small expanse. Peaceful. Almost always was at 6AM. Could it be that just a mere two weeks ago, the notorious Starling gang, quiet for the past few summers, had rallied and took the back yard by storm? He had become accustomed to the tranquility. The sudden call to action took him cold, but, trained and true in his craft, he had dispatched six of the gang members, two of them with head shots, which no doubt caused some trembling even in those hardened Starling members.
One of those taken, a certain Starlamma El Seedstealer, gut shot while perched on the feeder where he took his last earthly meal, upon receiving the dose of lead, flew up and quartered away, only to collapse in the alley, where he was promptly run over by a neighbor going to work! The protector smiled at the thought.
Suddenly, his reverie was broken, and the protector was instantly on full alert. A flash of gray, over near the corkscrew pine. His eyes narrowed, pulse quickening ever so slightly. From his high vantage point on the second floor, he had a command view of the “area”. The words of the Chief rang in his ears, “No collateral damage, to anything living or inanimate! And PLEASE, don’t forget to pick up the bodies!” He smiled again, remembering a particular terra-cotta pot that had been rendered useless by a misaligned shot…a dead squirrel forgotten, teetering on the fence…
There! Creeping low and wary, a young gray squirrel- the “Al Queada” of local woodlands- maker of messes; disturber of solace, an obnoxious pest, was slowly making his way to the food-stores.
Fire lanes were few, narrow and treacherous in the protector’s assigned area. But God had given him skill AND he had the proper tools. He slowly shouldered the Savage MK II, 22LR. As beautiful as it was deadly, it was a lustrous blue, adorned with a walnut thumbhole stock and topped by an adequate Nikon Prostaff Rimfire telescopic sight..a veritable killing machine. Savage..he liked the name, loved the looks, even better the accuracy!
22” of laser-straight barrel transected the open window frame. In the previous skirmish with the Starlings, that barrel had carried 40 grain lead projectiles straight to the target. The CCI “Quiet” rounds were just that: quiet! Accuracy sufficient at these short ranges and unobtrusive enough that few, if any, neighbors knew that evil was being vanquished right next door. A good round and at 710 FPS, not likely to become a liability. Of course, extreme care was always taken; the protector was not a “cowboy” as he was in his youth.
The squirrel, apparently satisfied he was safe, sprung upon an ornamental wooden stump, frightening away two small female cardinals. Helping himself to the feast set out for the friendly birds, he began to gorge himself. Simultaneously, a mere 30 feet away, a set of crosshairs were hovering around his head and neck.
The protector consciously controlled his breathing, and steadied himself. In what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only a few scant seconds, his finger began to steadily squeeze the trigger. A mere three pounds of pressure required, the protector relished the creep-free trigger mechanism.
A sudden movement by the squirrel, for no apparent reason, caused the “view” through the scope to be altered, the “enemy” now quartering away. No matter; the crosshairs almost instantly adjusted, now aiming along the insurgent’s left flank, slightly rear of its “shoulder”. In the natural pause between breaths, the protector drew the trigger tight. A “snap”, little more than the sound of an air rifle, heralded the arrival of a 40 grain pill the squirrel unwittingly took subcutaneously.
As if an electrical charge was suddenly applied to the squirrel, he jumped into the air and followed that opening acrobatic by doing what the protector liked to call the “dying quiver break dance”. Hopping around rapidly; at a moment seeming to defy gravity, the squirrel performed admirably; a certain 8 out of 10 scoring, he finished by a rapid side-step-scamper to the “border” gate, threw himself against it and landed in a heap, miraculously on the other side.
‘No neighboring vehicle to run him over this day, he expired with a definite look of consternation on his rodent-like face.
Keeping his word, the protector picked him up, examined him briefly, and then unceremoniously threw him into the woods at the front of the house, where he would become food for the predators that roamed there.
“The circle of life”, the protector snickered, as he prepared his second cup of morning coffee.
Brian- Hope you all enjoyed this. My mind is warped...