Only One Bullet

A Facebook friend asked the other day if anyone had ever forgotten where they put something for safe keeping. Here is the story of a time I did so...

(1988) Only One Bullet

It is said that animals can sense things in the environment that humans cannot. Perhaps, even in the spiritual realm. I don't know for sure, but I do recall one time my critters made me believe.

First, I'll say loud and clear that I believe in the right to bear arms. Don't even try to take my gun.

That having been said, I also believe in responsibility when it comes to weapons. With this strong conviction, after my son, Matthew, was born, and even though he was still a baby, I insisted that our little .22 Ruger be unloaded. A clip was kept ready to insert into the gun, but it was kept in a different place.

I have to admit that there are times I can be extremely scatter-brained. Ditzy is the word my ex-husband used for me once. I'm also directionally challenged—I can get lost in a shoebox. I have a story about that coming very soon. But this tidbit focuses on my flightiness and my dog's and cats' ability to see what I could not.

Matthew and I continued to live in Hattiesburg for over a year and a half after his birth before our house finally sold. The only "friends" I spent much time with was a ninety-seven-year old lady, Mrs. Shows, who lived across the street and Shirley Viehweg, the woman who watched Matthew while I worked. She lived a good half hour out of town and was old enough to be my mother, but Matthew and I had dinner with her every Wednesday evening. The couple of friends I had at work didn't spend time with me outside business. And I went to the gym with my friend Jan Ulmer twice a week. We sometimes stopped to eat at Rocket City Diner, near the gym.

The loneliness I felt before the birth of my child still weighed heavily on me. I kept Matthew's crib in the master bedroom. Sometimes, I let him sleep in the bed with me, lying on my chest while I rested on my back since I was terrified he'd smother on the bed or I'd sleep too hard and roll on top of him. He was a big baby, weighing in at ten pounds, four ounces at birth, but he was still a baby, and I would do anything to protect him—including shoot an intruder if need be.

Matthew's father usually came home late on Saturday nights, and after Matthew was born, he would get up very early Monday mornings to leave for Jackson; whereas, before he'd leave Sunday evenings.

Oh, Matthew and I had some adventures. Like the time I was coming home from Shirley's about eight p.m. on a frigid February night. Yes, I finally had a car, once I discovered I was pregnant. We purchased a candy-apple red 1972 Super Beetle Volkswagen from Alan's uncle. I travelled east on Highway 98, when the car gave a God-awful shudder and loud cracking noise. I limped the vehicle into the emergency lane and put on the hazard flashers. This was long before cell phones. Some rich folks had car phones, but I wasn't rich. After a long wait and no one bothering to stop to see if I needed help, I bundled Matthew up and we started walking. Thank God! We got just a few yards from the car when a forest-green Jaguar pulled behind us. A nice man, whose name I cannot remember after all this time, got out and offered to give us a ride. He had a little girl about four years old in the back seat. He transferred Matthew's child safety seat to be beside his daughter and drove us home. Oh, the lovely smell of that leather. If I ever win the lottery—that's the kind of car I want. The crankshaft had broken on the Bug.

Another time in Matthew's and my little Beetle Bug that proved a challenge was another cold night, before or after the other incident, I don't remember. I pulled into a parking place at Cloverleaf Mall, got out, locked my door, and went around to the other side to get my little man out. Oops! His door was locked. I clearly saw my car keys on my seat. One of my ditzy moments on steroids. Another nice man appeared and helped me get into my car.

But the one crazy incident my son slept through had nothing to do with the VW, unless some sort of German dämon was hiding within the framework of the auto and slipped inside my locked-up-tight house. 

I would never have worried about Chen Li, my Pekingese, barking in the middle of the night. A scampering squirrel could have set him off. But when your dog is snarling with his hackles up and your three cats, Satin, Scarlett, and Skittles, are all hissing with arched backs—something is truly amiss.

I got up and peeked out the window. I saw nothing but pitch blackness. The streetlight was even out, but there was no bad weather. I didn't want to turn on a light, just in case someone or something was outside, trying to get in. I heard nothing though, except animals in frenzy. The hissing quickly became yowling and all four animals jumped on my bed.

I gathered Matthew and placed him on the bed with the critters. Then, I got my Ruger. And put the clip in…oh, wait! Where the hell did I hide that clip?

For the life of me I could not remember where I'd put the clip—just not the same place as the gun. Okay, the box of ammo was in the other side of the headboard of the bed, but not the loaded clip. (The headboard of my king size waterbed had a mirror in the center, and two sides with a little shelf in two bookshelf-like sides and a little boxlike cubby with a lift-up lid.)

I did the only thing I could think of since the phone was on the wall in the kitchen and I wasn't leaving my child or my fur babies to get to it. I put that one bullet in the chamber, pulled Matthew to me while I sat against the wooden headboard, and waited. Oh, I prayed. And after about half an hour, the animals all settled down and found places to sleep—on the bed with the baby and me.

I kept that gun with the one bullet right beside me the rest of the night.

The next day showed no sign of a prowler outside. All my doors and windows were locked. And I found the clip, but it was so NOT funny sitting there in fear with only one bullet between whatever or whoever had terrified my animals and my child and me.