"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result." - Winston Churchill
Our farm has become the site of genocide. Nine of our free-range chickens were slaughtered in a single night by a criminal mastermind who's red tail belongs nowhere but between the crosshairs of our new 22 gauge rifle. To live on a farm in Northern Michigan and not own a gun is something like an unspoken sacrilege to many of our neighbors who could supply a small army if they needed to. You get strange looks when you say you've never tried your hand at deer hunting, and people shake their heads in consternation when you point to the WWII rifle hanging just out of reach above the door and explain it's for decoration only. "You're not in Chicago anymore" they say.
But the war came to us. After I saved one chicken from the jowls of Mr. Fox, he came back a week later to off them all in spite. Thanks to my grandfather, we now have a semi-automatic '22 by the front door, loaded, and within reach. Thanks to one of our friends, we can all shoot the thing like pros. And thanks to another friend, I'm now a card carrying member of the NRA. Our family's a group of assassins now. With any luck, justice will be dealt, and we'll have a fox hide to pin up on the side of our barn like every other respectable Michigan farmer. Fox beware.