My Perfect Boys, Part 2

I brag on my sons a lot, and deservedly, but I think I’ve given people the wrong impression about how perfect they are.  Sorry folks, my boys are boys after all, and subject to all the natural quirks befalling that particular animal, as I explained last week in My Perfect Boys, Part 1

Let me share a few more examples.

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One time when our area was experiencing a period of cold, icy, slushy rain, I got home from working an overnight shift and took a nap.  On my way home I had noticed how high the water had gotten in the fields beside the road leading to our house, and how full the ditches had gotten that we depend on to keep southeast Missouri from reverting to the swamp it was before it was drained during the 19^th century.

As I crawled beneath my warm covers, I was thankful that my job doesn’t require me to be outside in the mud and slush.

I didn’t sleep too long since some of the boys were home for the holiday and I didn’t want to miss a chance to enjoy what little time we had together.  Tying my robe’s belt around my waste I headed down the hallway to get a cup of coffee.  It only took a step or two for me to realize that there was more than the usual amount of dirty water and mud on the floor.  In the kitchen I found two of my sons, soaking wet and muddy, and laughing.

“What happened?” I asked.

One of them chuckled and said, “The good news is we were able to save the canoe.”

Yeah.  OK.

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It seems that one of them had seen the same flooded ditches that I had, but instead of being eager to get into the warm house, he thought it looked like it would be fun to take my CANOE out in it.  The ride itself was fun but, when they realized how dangerous it was, and how virtually impossible it was to navigate, they tried to get out…and the bank, having been undercut by the rushing water, collapsed, dumping our two intrepid adventurers into the frigid, fast moving water.

I had to remind myself that these kids are well above average in intelligence.

It’s true; they’ve been tested.  So that means they only do smart people stuff, right?

Well, you’d think so wouldn’t you.

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I was at work early one morning when I got a phone call from one of the boys.  Since he was still living at home with us, I figured he needed some money, or a favor, or to borrow something, or…

“Dad, um, I’m sorry,” he started.

“What’d you do?” I asked.

“Well, you know you got that new crossbow and we took it out yesterday to practice with it?”

“Ye-e-e-es.”

“Well, I should have known better, but I thought a bag full of trash would stop an arrow fired from a crossbow…”

I hesitated, afraid I knew what was coming next.  “I would have sworn you knew better than that.  Where was the bag of trash when you shot it?”

At that moment, I heard the ding that indicated a text had come in to my phone.  Opening it, I found a photo showing a neat, round hole, through our back door…with a crossbow arrow sticking out of it.

I was astonished, “You shot a bag of trash-in-our-house?”

His voice sounded like he was cringing, “Well…I was in the kitchen and…”  He hesitated a split second, then blurted, “It went through the bag of trash, the kitchen door, and shattered the storm door, but that stopped it so it didn’t hurt anything else.”

I would like to think he learned his lesson because I made him patch the kitchen door and repair the storm door.  Well, he had to take out the trash too.  I just wish he’d taken it out BEFORE he shot it with the crossbow.

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Annie came into the house one day, upset that some wild critter was digging in her flower bed.  “I want you to trap that dang armadillo that’s digging up my flowers.”

I hesitated, “I’ll have to do some checking to see what kind of bait to use for armadillos.  Are you sure that’s what it was?”

She nodded her head, “I saw him in the yard the other day.”

“I agreed to do as she asked, as soon as I could figure out the right bait.

Arriving home the next morning after a tough midnight shift, I cleaned up and went to bed, intending to work on armadillo trapping when I got up.

My pleasant sleep was cut short by a not-so-pleasant odor, which was growing worse by the moment.  It didn’t smell like any armadillo I’d ever heard of.

Bleary eyed, I walked out of my bedroom.

“What happened?”

Ann had a sheepish look on her face.  “Andy put the live-trap out in the flower garden between our bedroom window and his, and, well, caught a skunk.  I couldn’t ask him to go pick up an upset skunk so I told him he could shoot it and haul it off.”

I cut her off, “You know skunks almost always spray their scent when you shoot them, right?”

“I do now.”

She went on, “He leaned out his bedroom window and shot it.  It, well, sprayed all down the side of the house.”

I spared no sarcasm, “You’re kidding.”

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Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure where the boys inherited their thinking process.

Do I need to clarify more than that?

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