In Troy, a woman told of her grandfather, a rascal. In his day, the factory workers all brought guns to work.
“Guns?” I said.
“Well,” she said, “it was the 1800s."
The rascal came to be in possession of a stuffed blue heron, taxidermied and very realistic. He stood it in the little pond in front of the factory. Then “ran like hell.”
Must have been open season on great blue herons.
Which reminds me of the time I was walking the dog in the woods behind my house during deer season, not my brightest move. But we were both wearing blaze orange. Lo and behold, we came upon a deer, not twenty feet in front of us.
What did I do?
Grabbed the dog and hit the deck. I didn’t want us to be in the line of fire.
Another time, same woods, the dog and I were walking and we came upon a hunter. We stood on the ridge and could see him slinking around in the ravine. He seemed to be stalking something wild, but he didn’t notice us, standing there. Didn’t want him to turn around quick and mistake us for prey so I yelled, “Hey!”
He was none too pleased. Especially when the dog ran down and jumped up on him – just being friendly.
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