My little brother’s cat had four toes on one paw, six on the other. We called him Toes. It was raining cats and dogs when my oldest brother jumped into his Jeep, pulled away, ran over Toes’ head, kept on going. My little brother looked out the window and saw a bloody Toes running in circles. He let out a scream. My older brother and I ran to investigate. Toes head was shaped like a triangle. There was lots of blood. An eye was popping out. Toes never ran but was now running full speed in circles. Dave commanded, “Get the gun.” This meant I had to go into my parents’ closet and grab the .22 rifle we were forbidden to touch. I also had to go back three times to grab bullets as my brother kept missing. The third shot hit right in the brain. The poor pussycat started jumping two feet in the air and wouldn’t stop. “Get the shovel,” my brother yelled. A strong whack in the head finally did the trick. My little brother was traumatized for hours. We all were.
The NRA gun instructor said, “You missed the target twenty times straight.”
Dad wanted me and my brother to learn to shoot a rifle. I think when I stared at the target I went cross-eyed. The instructor showed my dad the target with no holes in it.
This was another disappointment for my dad. It ranked right up there with getting beat up in school by a girl, noisily crapping my pants in church, and continuing to gain weight after he and Mom put me on a strict diet.