There are no tales of tickle-stick derring-do emanating out of Kansas. Still less paeans to emergency sorties out o’ the bight, nor the fate of po’ Lazlorus. Still, every now and again something good does come out of Our Central Rectangle.
I head for the house.
Bug follows me. Vibrating.
The yipping, barking and howling continue down into the swale of the creek below the house, and then moves up-branch into the impact area laying directly behind the house, where many a criminal piece of paper has been executed by firing squad.
I go into the house. Bug – runs off, vibrating like the chihuahua he is.
The sound of mortal combat intensifies. That or a meeting of the Security Council. I come out of the house. Carrying the O.R.C., tapping the magazine to ensure it’s seated, and flipping the filters up on the Tru-Glo sight.
I lock and load, safety on, trigger finger laying alongside the receiver, rifle cradled at the ready.
Kiki comes bounding back upslope, revealing her inner Frenchness. She barks sternly at the fighting going on in the brush, like an impotent UN diplomat in front of a camera.
And looks to me to do something. Heh. Typical.
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