The Path of Life I have been traveling never fails to twist into some unexpected surprises. One major obstacle I stumble upon frequently on this path is upon the feet of a friend of mine. For the purpose of my story, I will call him “WiIe E”.
Now ole Wile E is a unique individual who keeps the neighborhood interesting. I have often thought Hollywood could make a block busting comedy, if not even a series about the comings and goings on my street. Of course, I am “slightly” embellishing, but believe me when I say this is based upon a true story.
Wile E always creates a new path for me to follow. I can’t help but stop, watch, and listen when led in his direction. He is a tall lanky fellow with a full white beard, but still has his own set of teeth. He enjoys cigars, beer and football. He also has a talented ability to imitate just about everyone he encounters with such accuracy, you would swear the person he was impersonating was in his pocket.
He loves fire and guns which, by the way, is the basis of this particular story. Wile E is having a problem with ground moles. He will sit and watch the little buggers digging mounds of tunnels throughout his yard. Steam boils and rolls out of Wile E’s ears with every inch of tunnel the mole creates.
Soon he decided he had enough. One day, he hunkered down with his neck stuck out like a turtle and with narrowed eyes scanned the perimeter of his property and mine. I swear his ears work like radar, turning in the direction of every move the mole would make.
When the earth would start to move his heart would skip a few beats. He would slowly stand up and get the pitchfork ready. With great care and aim, he pounced,drilling the pitchfork down into the very path of the mole.
Gleefully he would look to see his reward. There it was, a beheaded mole. Laughing and jumping uncontrollably, Wile E would stab the mole, picking him up and burying him in the woods next to Cookie, my beloved dog. Soon, a small graveyard emerged.
It wasn’t long before Wile E decided it would be much more productive to use a shotgun instead of a pitchfork. So, he began to hunker down with his turtle neck and narrow eyes scanning the perimeter and ears rotating and wait.
Once again, he would spot the earth moving and giddy with anticipation, we would creep up into the mole’s path. With sweat pouring off his brow, eyes narrowed, and shotgun raised, he would hold his breath and aim.
The shotgun would crack. He’d run around, chasing the mole’s path.
He’d run some more yipping and yowling like a drunken hillbilly. He’d whoop and holler,
“I got you, you lowdown scurvy varmint!” “Your ass is mine!”
Pow! Pow! Pow!
“Yeehaw! I gotcha!”
Laughing so hard he could barely walk, he’d fetch the pitchfork.
“Heeheehee!” “Take this, you son of a broomstick!”
He’d hook his prize and half walking half skipping, go up to the woods to place the mole with his ancestors in the graveyard.
Wile E enjoys coming over to show off his empty shotgun casing, proudly telling what he had done. It is much like the way a cat drags in a dead bird, strutting and showing his family he has earned his keep.
It doesn’t take much to keep Wile E entertained and I must admit he does a fine job entertaining me as well.