Squirrels

When I was a teenager my friends and I used to hunt squirrel. It was always fun but I don't think I realized how hillbilly this practice really was. We would make entire weekends of the sport. For this, and other reasons, many of the stereo-types about people from Arkansas are justified. I didn't know how powerful these stereo-types were until I received a call from a friend of mine one day. This friend of mine told me that her and her husband had trapped a squirrel in the attic and wanted to know if I wanted to come and get it to cook for supper. I laughed at first and then I realized she was serious when she told me that she thought I may have been homesick for some squirrel. I gently told this friend of mine that I would let them keep the squirrel because I was busy with a big batch of white lightning and had to get back to the still.

Recently my affections for the four legged delicatessen has changed. We have a pecan tree in our front yard. The previous owners never picked up the pecans and they are buried all over the lawn. This wasn't a big deal until I landscaped the yard and our squirrel started digging through all my plants to find his buried treasure. I wanted to kill the little thing. Jennifer likes the squirrel and named him John Henry, I don't know why. Well the other day I realized two things. First, my redneck disposition is stronger than I thought. Second, it is illegal to discharge a firearm in the city limits. When the officers arrived I quickly ran inside, kicked off my shoes, found my old Arkansas driver's license and put on my overalls with out an undershirt. I was given and warning because they understood I was just hungry.

(Part of the above story is a complete fabrication but I wont tell which, that's why it's a story.)