Pat Buckley, RIP

Thank you, David J.White, you just made my post for me!!
Amen and Amen!!

Squirrels are evil. Pure, undiluted evil. Must kill them all before they kill us first. (pops handful of Prozac in mouth) God bless.

I use my car (only 2 squirrels and 2 pheasants killed so far). But both were suicides - they jumped/flew right in front of me and I had no choice but to send them to the next world. :(

Squirrels are cute.
May this lady rest in peace.

Good for her. I've bagged dozens of the "rats with furry tails" for eating my expensive plants. They are a total nuissance. J

Still, I hate squirrels, and would pop a cap in they furry little heads if I caught them eating my tulips.

My brother, a biologist, once lived out in the woods, and he had a bow. One fine morning, he happened to be out in the kitchen--with his bow, for some unknown reason--and through the open window, he spied a squirrel stuffing itself at the bird feeder. He took aim very carefully, let fly, and skewered the squirrel. At that very moment, his little daughter entered the room in search of breakfast and saw the deed. "Daddy!" she cried "You SHOT the squirrel!" My brother was overcome with anguish. Oh, woe, I've killed the cute furry creature right before her very eyes. How will I explain this to my sweet little girl? I've scarred her for life! The child gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Oh, boy! Now can we EAT him?" she said, beaming happily.

Must be a Pat thing. There's a spectacular Pat (sixty something but we won't tell) in north Texas that's handy with a rifle too. Professional model, buisness owner, and married to the luckiest man in the world if you listen to him more than two minutes. Like I said, spectacular woman. I built the pipe fence around their ten acres. While working there we had two interesting things happen. One was amongst her chickens that roamed free during the day was a one eyed layer she called Monacle Millie. MM picked up on me moving things like pipe etc stirred up crickets. Being a cocky kind of guy I started crowing when a cricket would be exposed and she'd nail it. We were a team. One day at lunch in the barn MM cuddled up to me just a sweet talking something fierce. Pat mentioned that MM sure liked me a lot. When we got up to go back to work MM had laid an egg sitting there beside me. It was an ex-large double yoker. Tasted good, labor of love. When I started the job Pat had more than a handfull of chickens plus a bunch of ducks. By the end of the job there were no more chickens and just a few ducks. On a rainy day she saw a dobey and a rot (dogs, big dogs) killing one of her ducks. She yelled from the house and then tracked them across the properties to a trailer about a half mile away by the way the crow flies. The man in the trailer explained that it wasn't his dogs. His dogs had been in the house all day. But if he was her he'd kill any dogs that were killing his poultry. A couple of days later Pat caught them on the property devouring a duck. She wounded them both with her rifle. Then she jumped in her jeep and drove around the block to the trailer. She finished off the dogs as they came up. Then she walked over to the trailer and told the man that if anyone wanted to know who killed the two dogs across the street it was her. And they'd killed their last chickens and ducks. He had a fit, sued, lost. But when I see Pat these days all that beauty is fuzzier around the edges because imposed is the image of her standing in a magnificent pose firing a rifle at marauding dogs at almost a hundred yards. That and her having the stones to knock on the old boy's door to tell him like it is. The Pat Rod knew and the Pat I know sound like they're a lot alike.

Geez, if she's buried in a plot, won't there be squirrels running all over the grave?? All that shooting for nothing.

What a wonderful day to celebrate gun violence and animal cruelty! Compassionate conservatism strikes again!

Great stories, harvey.
From what Rod says about Mrs. Buckley, she sounds like the kind of woman who would have been happy for people to sit around telling stories about any old thing at her wake, so here's another: When my brother and I got our first BB guns (age 11 or 12 or so, Daisy Golden Eagles, and man, we were proud), we loaded up, practiced a bit, and looked around for a bird. A sparrow in a maple tree about twenty or thirty feet away. We both took aim and fired at more or less the same time. The sparrow dropped. We stared for a second, looked at each other and said simultaneously "You shot it." Maybe it's an over-civilized excess of sensitivity, but I never could get into hunting--that is, the actual killing part. Maybe you have to be more acquainted with hunger. Loved to walk around in the woods and fields and shoot, though.