One nice, summer evening, you and mom were playing badminton in the backyard across the creek. As usual, I was sitting nearby, reading. Suddenly, some man came running across our bridge, yelling “Who shot Abraham Lincoln?” We three looked at each other. Mom said, “Well, are you going to win the prize or shall I?” You said, “John Wilkes Booth.”
The man screamed at us in rage! He was talking about his cat — Abraham Lincoln. As opposed to his other cat — Lassie Chicken Noodle Soup.
Our neighbor, Harry, had been shooting vermin in his corn field that was adjacent to our backyard. Harry, being an old man with poor eyesight, couldn’t see the difference between a cat and a rabbit, raccoon, deer or elephant, for that matter. He also couldn’t see the difference between our mowed yard and his planted field.
Harry shot the poor cat in the leg. Unlike President Abe, the cat survived. It learned to get around quite well with three legs instead of four.
I think it was around that time that mom went and had a chat with Harry. I think the zoning ordinance prohibiting discharging of a firearm within 150 yards of an occupied structure was referenced. I also believe threat of calling the authorities was discussed. The topic of “shoving your shotgun so far up your ass it will take an expedition several days to find it” was also raised.
Good times, bro. Good times.
I love and miss you, Danny Boy.