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October 15, 2004
Self Reliance

I live in a pretty decent neighborhood. Solidly "upper middle-class," maybe "lower upper-class"... lots of professionals live in my neighborhood. If we all banded together, we could start a high-tech company all our own.

We're somewhat out in the sticks, too — our little subdivision in the woods west of Raleigh is the last one you get to before you're in genuinely rural territory. Cows, horses, ostriches, that sort of thing. Livestock. Crime here is virtually non-existent, if not actually non-existent.

A couple nights ago, while I was lying in bed reading prior to turning out the light, I heard a noise downstairs.

It was not the usual cat-generated noise — the cat was lying on my chest getting a one-handed chin-scratch while I held my book in the other hand. Nor was it the common "wind-blown twig hitting the side of the house" noise.

This sounded like someone trying to get in the sliding glass door off my back deck. I've never actually had anyone get into my house before, but that's what it sounded like to me.

There's a phone next to my bed. A police visit would have been a mere 911 call away.

The thought of calling the police never crossed my mind.

What first crossed my mind was get a firearm.

The thought of calling the police never crossed my mind.

What first crossed my mind was get a firearm.

Not call a cop, but get a gun.

Five minutes of investigation determined that it was no mere twig that had blown up against the house, but rather a length of branch about 1" in diameter knocking up against the sliding glass door. No big deal after all.

I delight in imagining, however, the look of utter surprise a burglar might wear on his face when confronted by a giant (me: 6'8", 300+ lbs.) in jockey shorts wielding a Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun. The sound of that slide racking is probably enough to cause severe and immediate bowel hyperactivity.

Epilogue: I returned upstairs to my room, to be greeted by a slightly miffed feline. He looked at me from the foot of my bed, no doubt indignant that his chin-scratch had been so rudely interrupted. I'm sure he thought I was an idiot cowboy. That's OK — I think he's French. I know which I'd rather be.

Posted by Russ at 03:02 PM, October 15, 2004 in Guns & Shooting & Personal Stuff

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LOL, Russ. Should of shot the branch just for fun.

Posted by: Scott B [TypeKey Profile Page] at October 15, 2004 03:19 PM

I have a cat that claims to be Persian, but I think he's French, atleast at heart. He whines if dinner is late, is very good at distainful looks if there is a bit of water on the kitchen floor and even one of his feet gets wet, and doesn't stop retreating, er, running for two rooms if so much as a leaf brushes the window.

Posted by: Retread at October 16, 2004 11:54 AM

Americas Most Highly Decorated Veteran Calls Kerry A Benedict Arnold

Posted by: SlagleRock at October 16, 2004 06:26 PM

Hmmmmm.... I'll have to think about what nationality my dog acts like. she's a 15 pound Lhasa Apso who shows agression towards German shepherds but is terrified of houseflies, begs for treats and people food shamelessly, and manages to make her 20 inch long, 12 inch tall body take up a full 70% of a queen bed, leaving the pillows and a smal 3'x3' space for my wife and me, and loves to play catch.

Posted by: Brian B at October 21, 2004 02:03 PM

Nothing says "get the hell out my house or die" like chambering a round into a 870.
I have lived on ranches most of my 39 years, dialing 911 never enters into my mind.
Great site.

Posted by: Yolo Cowboy at November 9, 2004 01:00 AM