In a Sow’s Ear 8-30-10
Cranston J. Peasnort and his fearless (usually) mate, Crepesole A. Peasnort, are both hunters. Crepesole is as good a shot as hubby, Cranston. She brings home as much game for the table as Cranston. She’s got nerve, she’s got sass, she’s got panache … and she’s got a horrible fear of snakes, especially the rattlin’ kind. Crepesole packs a sidearm whenever she treks into the back country. Should a snake cross her path, it’s a dead viper, no question. By the time she finishes shooting, the slithering critter hasn’t enough skin left to cover a button, let alone make a hatband.
On this fine sunny afternoon, Cranston and Crepesole drove to a local bow-hunting practice course to sharpen their arrow-shooting skills. Only Cranston was packing heat. Crepesole had left her pistola at home. The scene went something like this: The course wound along pathways among brush and trees and manufactured crannies wherein lurked stuffed targets of the four-footed kind. Crepesole’s inner panic button lit up when she read the sign at the start of the trail: Stay on path to avoid rattlers.
Cranston promised Crepesole she’d be fine. “Don’t worry. A snake hearing us tromping along will skedaddle the other way.”
Though she couldn’t claim she was convinced, Crepesole nocked an arrow and took a shot at an electrically moving deer target. Encouraged by a clean hit, she continued along the pathway, eyeballing the underbrush on both sides, ready for the next challenge. Her sweeping glance fell on something lying stretched out across the trail. Was it a branch from a tree? Was it a dropped cloth? Was it somebody’s belt? No! It was a SNAKE!
To say panic ensued is putting it mildly. It’s a good thing Cranston J. Peasnort is a sturdy guy because Crepesole climbed him like a tree, while bawling, “Shoot It! Shoot It! Shoot It!”
“Okay,” said Cranston as calmly as he could considering that Crepesole’s squealing voice was busting his eardrums, “but you gotta get off me first.” He began pulling her from his frame like peeling skin off a banana.
When her feet connected once again with earth, Crepesole distanced herself from Mr. Snake by at least 7-feet in one jump.
“You’ve got a gun! Shoot it! Shoot it!”
“Can’t use my gun,” said Cranston, “there’s a house in that direction and there might be someone ahead of us on the trail. I’ll shoot it with an arrow.”
Meanwhile the rattler, still stretched across the path, began to wake up – and coil up. Cranston, employing his arrow like a lance and nailed it to the ground. “I’ll cut off its head and tail,” he said. “You go find a stout stick so’s I can smash its noggin. Danged thing can still bite even without a body.”
Crepesole left Cranston to his task. Some moments later she returned – bearing a stick? No, it was a small log. She’d made off with somebody’s loosened fence post. (Did I mention that Crepesole is a very strong woman?)
Cranston J. Peasnort gazed at his soul mate. “D’ya think that’s a big enough stick?” he drawled.
“It better be,” snarled Crepesole and proceeded to beat the snake’s head into paste.
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