Dad’s Shotgun Shell

My father’s mind is okay. It’s his body that’s shot. He has trouble with walking and with balance. Arthritis has bent him forward. My mother’s body is like that ever-ready Bunny; she plows along. It’s her memory of Dad that has tanked. She thinks there are two of my father, and she doesn’t like one of them. She asks Dad every day if he has seen her husband. He gets so frustrated and upset I get afraid for Mom.

When I stop by today, Dad requests a shotgun shell.

A shotgun shell? I’m suspicious. I question him gently about his treatment from nurses and staff, about the food, and about Mom’s condition…is it getting him down, again?

No, is his answer.

My father grew up dynamiting tree stumps from fields on our family’s farm. He’s been hunting for wild game since he was eight. This 92-year-old man understands explosives. “Why do you need the shell?”

“It’s that damn squirrel outside my window.”

“You’re going to shoot a squirrel right through the glass?”

“He eats all my bird food. I could blast the bugger right through the wall.”

Dad couldn’t have a gun. I would have seen it. I know he’s clever…and I’m imagining a hammer tapping a nail into the end of the shell, setting off the gun powder, exploding shot…blood, broken plaster and shards of glass…stop imagining. “Dad, how do you plan to blast the bugger with the shotgun shell?”

“I’ll take the BBs out of the shell, load them into a paper straw and blow his tail right off… right through this open window.” He leans forward and points. “I’ll hit him in his ass!”

“What straw?”

“I’ve been saving them from the dining room.”

“Well, if you can get rid of that squirrel it could cut down on the bird seed bill. Think you can get this window up?” I say as I unlock the window and check it for ease of opening.

“If I can’t I’ll ask your mother to help me.”

I look at my 89-year-old mother, fast asleep in her chair. “What about this screen?” I bend down to investigate. “It looks like it fastens from the outside. Mom can’t just walk out a door to pull it off. She would set off an alarm and you’d both be caught.”

A line slices Dad’s forehead between his eyes. After a long pause he looks up “That BB will only make a small hole in the screen.”

“Dad.”

“Okay. So I haven’t worked out the screen problem yet.” He rubs his forehead. “I might just ask Rusty, my maintenance buddy, to pull it off for me. He’s the one who feeds my birds. Say, I’m going to need some more wine. Will you bring me some next time? The box in the refrigerator is old.”

Later that day my husband and I shop at our big-box mega-market for a small box of sweet Merlot. Dad insists gallon cartons get old and spoil…like milk.

“What if your father inhales a BB instead of blowing it out?” my husband says as we maneuver the maize of aisles looking for hunting equipment.. “If they’re lead, he could die.”

We both gasp at the amount of live munition lining the shelves for anyone to buy, and finally locate BB’s. “Let’s find some shot that’s digestible… about the same diameter as a BB.” We purchase biodegradable air gun pellets and drop them off later that day. The grin on Dad’s face is equal to my husband’s…partners in the conspiracy. And I am an accomplice…just as guilty as they are…if we are caught.

Dad demonstrates blowing pellets through his paper straw, but the circumference of the shot is too great. “I’ll ask my buddy, Rusty, to bring me a small piece of copper tubing. He said he would help me with the screen.”

“I’ll talk to Stan, our Research and Development guru,” Bob says. “Maybe he can fabricate some kind of blow gun for you. But Bill, you can’t use it on the nurses.”

That brings a twinkle to Dad’s eyes. “Okay. But Bob, it can’t look like a weapon, or they’ll put us both away.” They both laugh.

“This blow gun. It would be used for squirrels only, right? I need you to promise me you won’t use it on Mom.”

“Okay, I promise,” Dad says too quickly, and laughs again.

I learned about making and keeping promises from the master.“Dad, when I was growing up you made me promise never to pick up a hitchhiker. Remember that? I have been tempted over the years, but I have never offered a stranger a ride. I kept my promise to you.”

Dad smiles. “Good girl.”

“Now here’s the deal. If one day you get really mad and decide to use your blow gun on Mom, I’ll find out. The nurses will call me. When that happens your only daughter, your youngest child, will go out for a drive and pick up the first hitchhiker she sees. Understand?”

Dad nods agreement. He’s not smiling.

All through this conversation Mom has been napping in her Lazyboy. Her eyes snap open and she says, “Mickey helped me dig a hole in the back yard to bury that big rock that got in the way each time he mowed the grass. I helped him push, and push, and push until the rock rolled in. But the hole wasn’t deep enough. So, we had to dig that big rock out of the hole, and make the hole deeper. Mickey helped me roll it back in.” She fell back asleep.

A week later I check on the blow gun. Stan, our company’s Director of Research and Development looks disappointed. He tells me he has tried blowing shot through different lengths of quarter-inch copper tubing. The digestible pellet consistently drops to the lab floor less than a foot from the end of the tube. He has tried using an air compressor to increase the velocity through the pipe. The pellet fared no better. He tried a heavier ball, a steel bearing. It shoots further, but the speed is still too slow to do more than tickle the squirrel. At last Stan pulls a hand-made slingshot from his back pocket. “I developed this tool to educate squirrels.”

I show Dad the slingshot on my next visit. He is delighted. He loads pellets like an expert, pulls the plastic pouch, and lets them snap. Pellets ricochet off the wall, bounce off the ceiling and hit Mom in the shoulder, the arm, her forehead.

“What?” Mom is suddenly awake. “What was that?”

“Dad, how about wearing your glasses when you shoot that thing? I’ll hang one of these stuffed animals on the wall for a target, and you can practice hitting it. Mom, you put your glasses on too.”

My mother is smiling, enjoying the excitement of the pellets bouncing off the walls, the refrigerator, hitting the glass on a hanging print, a vase of flowers, but never on the target.

The squirrel is safe for now.