The Shootist
Carl “Papa” Palmer
My brother asks if I would put his old momma cat out of her misery, handing me a rifle.
Why would you ask me to do that?
You like shooting animals, don’t you?
You shot the neighbor’s dog.
It was in the pack killing Dad’s chickens.
You were always shooting rabbits, squirrels and even a deer you shot down by Smitty’s buzzard barn that I helped you drag home through the woods.
All meat for our dinner table.
You’re in the Army. There’s a war, people getting shot.
Aren’t you shooting people over there?
I’m a missile systems technician, not a soldier.
I carry test equipment, not a weapon.
What about when you shot Daddy’s cat?
We all saw you do that...
~
It was 1971. I was on military leave at the family homestead on Old Mill Road in Virginia for a few days before sending my baby, Kathy and my wife, Judy to stay with her folks in Germany while on my assignment to Korea for a thirteen month tour of duty.
Too nice to stay indoors, the whole family gathers in the front yard shade of the locust trees watching our toddler play on a blanket spread across the ground.
Dad has this stray cat he carried home from the factory yard where he works as night watchman. It’s black other than the white scars around its nose and mouth, no front teeth causing it to drool through its split lip, one milky blind eye and only half a left ear. Dad walks up petting the ugly animal and sets it on the blanket beside Kathy.
No one is happy about that move. With everyone looking at me, I say, “Get that damn thing away from here right now! If it scratches Kathy, it’s dead!”
“She’s a good little kitty, she wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Almost immediately Kathy screams. My baby is scratched.
I pick up the cat, take a shotgun from the house and walk out the back door. Everyone hears the blast from behind the barn. I put the shotgun back in the house and return to my seat at the side of the blanket. No one says anything, looking between me and Dad.
I wait until that night as Dad is getting ready to leave for work and let him know the cat is locked in one of his chicken coops behind the barn.
I didn’t shoot Matt’s momma cat, either.
Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...
