"Life is too short, so love the one you've got; cuz you might get ran over, or you might get shot"

The other day I went to visit my friend Jake, who just got off his mission. I'm driving along in Lake Shore at night trying to find his house when suddenly, out of nowhere, bolts out this incredibly retarded cat right into my drivers side tire. If I had had time to think about it, I might have tried to avoid the cat. Or maybe I wouldn't have, considering our family's history with the feline race. No matter my ethics, the truth is, after I hit it I felt horrible. Surely Mr. Cat died because of the considerable "thump, thump" (yes, there were 2 thumps) that was heard and felt. I pictured some little girl bent over in sorrow as she found her demolished pet. I called Stew and Jake recounting my experience almost in tears because I felt so bad. But Jake said it was probably a good thing; that there are tons of wild cats that reproduce all the time and become a nuisance. I felt better for a minute until I remembered "the incident" last summer.

It all started on a lazy afternoon in Moran, WY. Jared (Becca's older brother who lived with us), found me minding my own business and staying out of trouble. "You wanna go shoot some chizzlers?" He askes.

"Chizzlers" are the po-dunk name for those little squirrle things that I formerly knew as "pot guts." In all my life, I've never been one for killing animals. When I declined the offer, Jared explained to me that the chizzlers are all over the place and that they are ruining the horses grazing grass, or something of that sort. I can't really remember why they were such a nuisance, but I do remember that he convinced me to go with him. "Population control" he said. I agreed to hold the gun, but I wouldn't actually shoot the little buggers. They were kind of cute...

This is Raphael. He's not a "chizzler" but a little chipmunk friend that we found at Yellowstone. It was the closest picture I could find in my library.

So there I am, holding this gun, merely set on looking like a hard-A, but I didn't plan on doing anything with it. Jared shoots. He shoots again. And again. Nothing. Wow, this guy was really struggling and it was getting annoying. At that moment something came over me. I don't know what, maybe it was satan, but I lifted the gun, aimed, and shot. No, it wasn't Jared I shot at, but instead a cute fuzzy little chizzler maybe 30 feet away. BAM! The little guy started trippin like mad. I hit him good.

"OH NO!! Put it out of it's misery, kill it!" I screamed. But Jared just watched, as the little fellow squirmed around in agony. And so did I. I was shocked. Finally he layed at rest and moved no more. Did I seriously do that? First of all, I couldn't believe I killed an animal. Second of all I couldn't believe I actually hit it. Months before this incident I went shooting with some friends. We shot clay pigeons, milk jugs, little plastic army men, and the likes. It was the first time I could remember shooting a gun, and boy was I having a hard time. I couldn't figure out how to accurately aim. I looked ridiculous bending over everywhich way to get the view thingy to line up. After about 10 or 15 minutes of struggling, someone pointed out that I was looking through the wrong eye. Needless to say, handleing a gun isn't really my forte.

My heart pounded, my face twisted in disgust at myself. I felt white trash and sinful, but there was nothing I could do about it. He was gone. I called my mom nearly in tears. She thought it was funny, but that just made me feel worse. It took a while to live peacefully with myself, but I'm okay now.

I'm not sure why I blogged about this. Maybe it's a sort of confession. Maybe it's an ode to the innocent who fell under my hand. Maybe it's so you all who read it can tell me, "It's okay, you're not a killer."

No matter the reason, I guess all I want to say is, bless that little rodent that he may rest in peace. And also Mr. Cat.