 Sparky Jackson, Bounty Hunter Friday morning, after Wayne left for his daily walk, I was sitting on the couch in my underwear, eating a bagel and watching the morning news. These early morning moments of solitude and partial nudity mean a lot to someone who got married late in life. They seem to satisfy the occasional longing for the rich, feral existence I once had as a single person. Then I noticed Minnie, our smallest cat, slinking across the kitchen toward the kitty door in stealth mode. Something was up. I went over to the door and heard a distress call coming from the backyard – the cry of a small animal. As I opened the back door, several other cats scattered and I saw Sparky aka The Bounty Hunter, trotting across the deck with a live baby turkey in his mouth.
“Drop it!” I yelled, running out the door in my bare feet. Sparky ignored me and kept going, off the deck, through our retaining wall of periwinkle. I could hear the mama turkey crying out in alarm behind me. “Put that down!” I screamed, as he turned at the corner of the house. “You asshole! I’ll kick your butt!” I couldn’t believe the magnitude of epithets that emerged from me as I scampered through the periwinkle in my underwear. I’m an animal rights person. I’ve kept a part time job at a local humane society for over seven years. So maybe it was the smug look on Sparky’s face as he continued to trot flippantly around the side of the house. I chased after him until I nearly slipped on the embankment. I was running a losing race; the only way I would catch him was by wearing shoes. I went back into the house and quickly donned a pair of shorts and my sandals, rushing out the front door this time. I finally corralled him next to a large oak tree and screamed at him once more, to drop it. He did, and backed off long enough for me to give him a mama-cat’s smack and yell, “No!” I really don’t like it when he kills things he’s not going to eat, and I make every effort to discourage him. He left a dead teenage turkey on the front porch once, and another time, a baby rabbit. Not only is it very sad for me when he does this, but the little creatures are hard to bury during the summer, when our clay soil essentially becomes cement. And collars with warning bells usually last for about half a day around here before disappearing into the woods. The baby bird dropped onto the ground and I thought she was dead, when she twitched and moved her tiny wings. Sparky took a step forward and I pushed him away, yelling, “No!” I picked up the little bird, thinking I’d be hosting another cement-burial soon, and she began to panic, peeping and quivering. She kicked at my hands with her tiny feet, trying to escape. “She’s still alive!” I cried, heading toward the woods. I went up into the brush and let her go, hoping she’d peep loudly enough to attract the attention of her turkey-mom. She scrambled away. I turned and Sparky was right behind me, so I picked him up and brought him into the house, locking him in the bathroom. I went back outside and found a couple of our other cats milling around, so I brought them in too, hoping I could give mother and baby the chance to find each other. The mother seemed to be wandering around the area in a daze, and I worried if the baby might have already died of internal bleeding, or shock. I went back inside to finish my half-eaten bagel. Sparky was not to be ignored, pawing and crying at the bathroom door, until I decided he’d had enough punishment, so I let him out and went back to the news. It was an exciting and happy morning, with marriage equality as the headline. A few moments later I heard the kitty door flap open, and turned to see Sparky trotting across the kitchen floor, chest puffed out, tail erect, with the baby turkey in his mouth. I roared at him to drop it and he ignored me, heading into the bedroom. I went after him and he dropped the bird on the floor next to the bed. She lay still and I figured, this is really it. I started to get the small plastic wisk-shovel to ready her for burial, when she twitched again, lifting her head. Sparky perked up again too, so I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and brought him back to the bathroom, locking him in. The baby turkey lay on the floor quietly, so I picked her up and gently cooed to her. She came back to life and struggled again, trying to free herself with both wings and feet as I stroked her softly, heading back outside. “We’ll find your mama, “ I told her. This time I went to the north side of the property where the brush is thicker, and walked further into it, regardless of the burrs. I let her go and she ran peeping into the woods again. I stood guard until she was far under the brush, then herded the remaining cats, who’d apparently crashed through the kitty door in hot pursuit, back into the house. This time I heard multi-generational squawking, so I went back inside to let nature take its course. The cats stayed in the bathroom for another twenty minutes while I got busy with other things. I haven’t seen a return of the baby turkey, in the house or on the welcome mat, which often happens when Sparky insists on presenting his prey. He may have lost interest, or else the mom and baby reunited while he was in the bathroom, and headed further into the woods. I hope they found each other.
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 My father, a doctor, had guns. Pistols, .22-gauge rifles and a 30-30 shotgun. He tried hunting but eventually couldn’t deal with the killing of woodland creatures, so he switched to targets and skeet shooting. He taught his children how to shoot the small .22 rifles, aiming for targets instead of live animals. I really wanted to shoot those clay pigeons too, although my one opportunity ended with me lying on my back, the shotgun still in my hands.
My dad’s best friend, also a doctor, made house calls in the middle of the night on Long Island, packing a pistol in a shoulder holster. So of course my dad had to have one of those too. Then there was the blackout of 1965, when the entire Northeast went mysteriously dark for hours. You’d better believe we were glad our dad had a working collection of guns. After I’d grown up, got hippified and moved to San Francisco, I began to experience a fear factor that was restrictive to an annoying degree. I’d already decided that guns were stupid, after being rousted a number of times from my meditation spot back in the Catskills by trespassing hunters, so I began to study a martial art called aikido. Why would I need a gun when I can just radiate non-violent energy instead? became my new mantra. So I went about my business for the next quarter of a century, peaceful, non-violent, and gun-less. When I bought a house in a rural part of Oregon, I lived alone on four acres for a number of years. By that time, I’d gotten my third-degree black belt in aikido, and had amassed a number of different t-shirts and sweat-shirts from the dojos I’d trained in. I called them my “Don’t F*ck With Me" collection. Whenever someone was scheduled to come over and help me fix something with the house, I’d be sure to wear one of them. I told all my neighbors about my training too, which seems to give a woman a certain mystique of inscrutable power, not to be messed with on a whim. I also learned how to operate a chainsaw. Then one day while reading Mother Earth magazine, the pinnacle publication of peace, love and composting, I came across a letter written by someone who’d overheard a conversation at their local feed store, which went something like this: Redneck #1: Are you stocking up for when things go bad? Redneck #2: Just on bullets. If things get really bad, I’ll just go over to the hippie farmers down the road and take what they have. I began thinking about guns and the apocalypse with renewed interest. After all, even Atticus Finch had a gun, plus I found respect for them when we had to call a neighbor to come over and put a broken fawn out of her misery. I remembered that I’d been taught to shoot a small rifle and a pistol, and when we were older, our father was happy to give us quarters for the shooting arcade game at the local pizzeria. So I visited the local arcade at the mall, where I discovered a video game called “House of the Dead.” I found that I took great pleasure in shooting the heads off cartoon zombies. In fact, I made it my practice to go to the arcade whenever I felt frustrated with one thing or another, to blast the heads off zombies with a plastic pistol. Then I relaxed back into my old non-violent comfort zone, filing the whole gun ownership issue in the back of my mind. After all, I told myself, I have an acute sense of awareness and there are lots of weapon-like things around the house anyway. Why bother with a gun? A few years later I married a high school buddy from New York who remembers me way before my black belt or my purchase of a chainsaw. Even a bigger peacenik than me, he has never even held a gun, let alone shot one. One weekend we rented The Road. It was so scary we considered turning it off in the middle, but we’re both Viggo Mortensen fans, so we forced ourselves to see it through in his honor. Afterwards, there was no question about whether tree-hugging, dirt-worshipping peaceniks like ourselves would wind up as toast or even dinner, after such an apocalypse. Would an arsenal of guns keep us safe? For how long? The old mall arcade now long gone and replaced by a cell phone store, I discovered a House of the Dead game at our local bowling establishment, which thrilled me – I hadn’t seen it in years! I got several dollars’ worth of quarters and initiated my husband. Within minutes, he’d become a homicidal maniac like myself, shooting the heads off zombies with great gusto! Things being the way they are, I’m still considering getting a real gun and taking lessons at the local shooting range. But for now, we’ve decided to purchase a Playstation and get House of the Dead. We want to be ready for when those zombies start attacking the place. |
Here's where I expound on whatever I'm passionate about at the time. I welcome your comments, as long as you're not hateful, a terrorist, or attempting to pedal work-at-home offers.
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