By B. Elwin Sherman
Gun
control. Let’s straighten this out:
I have a
big loaded gun. I don’t have a license or permit for it. Neither is required
where I live, unless I want to carry it concealed while on foot, or loaded, concealed
or not, in a vehicle.
There has
been one time since I’ve had my big loaded gun that I’ve come even remotely
close to using it on anything that uses lungs to exchange air (thus far, I’ve
never felt mortally threatened by an intruding worm or land shark bent on
destruction, but if either one makes a move toward me at home, I’m ready. I
haven’t considered what I’d do if attacked by a giant centipede while driving,
but that’s a risk I’ll assume.).
As a
working humorist, danger is my business, and I’ve never wanted to put “mobile
big bug self-defense” on the form as the reason why I was applying for a concealed
carry permit.
One evening,
as my wife Judy and I were busy in opposite ends of the house, I heard a
thumping sound. I had a load of wash
going, and I always manage to pack the clothes just off-kilter enough to set
the thing a-thumping in the spin cycle.
That’s what I thought I heard.
Until Judy
screamed.
To be fair,
it was more like a long “Aaaack!” sound: the kind of modified shriek she
reserved for domestic crises, like when she discovered that I’d put her favorite
white wool sweater in with my cheap dark socks.
But, her
next utterance clarified everything: “HONEY!
IT’S A BEAR!”
Even then, my
first thought was that she was reacting to something on TV. Judy did this, and
it was a behavior I’d always found endearing, though she’d subjected me to a
few fits and starts before, when we’d begun watching an Agatha Christie mystery
together and I’d drifted off to sleep, only to be jolted awake by her “Aaaack!”
when the plot suddenly thickened.
But, this
time, when I stood to investigate and looked down the hallway, I saw it. Holy
shrunken discolored wool sweater on Miss Marple, Batman. This was serious. A big
black bear was coming through the window.
There it
was: its head and front paws inside the house, as it was attempting to pull
itself over the windowsill (see the claw marks in the photo).
Now we’ve
arrived at the issue of gun control.
Most of us
claim to know what we’ll do in a perceived life or death scenario. I say
“perceived” because sometimes a treasured heirloom wool sweater permanently
shrunken to size pre-toddler can feel like life or death for both wearer and
shrinker.
But, at
that moment, no further perception was necessary. Judy, peeking around the
corner, leveled one more “Aaaack!” in the direction of the poised invader, then
disappeared when I yelled something at her resembling “GO LOCK YOURSELF IN THE
BATHROOM!” It resembled that a lot. She bolted off toward the john with a
departing “Aaaack!” for good measure.
I reached
for my big loaded gun, which was sitting nearby. I aimed it at the animal and
shouted something resembling “SHOOO!” It resembled that exactly.
With my
finger on the trigger, my heart in my throat, my wife safely secured in the
privy and another colorfast washload thumping away, I was ready to fire. The
bear was teetering on the sill. Time stood still, and I knew, then and there,
that I would never mistake a hungry bear for an errant appliance again.
I also knew
that if I didn’t shoot, and the bear toppled into the house and became trapped,
all bets would be off. There’d be no politely showing it the door. Judy might
never come out of the bathroom, and I’d never again do another load of
mismatched clothes.
Then,
simply and suddenly, the bear solved the problem by falling backward out the
window and running off. I gave it another “Shooo!” as it crashed over
the BBQ grille and into the darkness. Three
well-aimed “Aaaacks!” and two “Shooos!” had taken their cumulative toll, shocked
the bear into retreat mode, and Nature had done the rest.
Yes, I
would’ve shot the bear. Shot it dead. And, I would’ve felt awful about it. The
bear was just doing what bears do: following the trail of sunflower nuts on the
ground under the birdfeeder to its source in the bag on the bench inside the
house. Still, I’d have dispatched it with my big loaded gun if it had come to
that, if for no other reasons than to save my wife and free-up the bathroom.
Now … the
issue of gun control?
I don’t
know the answer, but I do know that arming bears isn’t it. I know that I
controlled my big loaded gun. I know that it was me with the gun, not the gun
without me, that didn’t shoot the bear.
I know that
ruined laundry is no longer a crisis in this house.
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Senior Wire News Service syndicated humor columnist B. Elwin
Sherman writes from NH bear country. Copyright 2013 by B. Elwin Sherman. All
rights reserved. Used here with permission.
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