My neighbor’s land joins my back yard. This property consists of a 40-acre tangle of never-cut woods and brambles. The growth is nigh impenetrable. Yet, all sorts of critters venture out during the night, possums, raccoons, groundhogs, coyotes, deer, bobcats, foxes, turtles and the occasional rattlesnake.
All these members of the animal kingdom head straight to my house. I see a wide assortment of claw and hoof foot-tracks in the unpaved driveway. Not to mention the odd scratching and scuffling about on the porch and carport in the wee hours.
Not only do I have four-legged and scaly night-time callers, twice in the recent past, while pushing the garbage can to the road after midnight, I stumbled upon human strangers in my front yard. Both scruffy, unhygienic-looking dudes asked me to drive them places, one to Lafayette, Alabama, the other to West Point, Ga.
And both were sorta miffed that I refused the honor. I was sorta miffed at myself for not pushing the garbage to the road during daylight hours like a normal person.
So, having intrusive late-night visitors is nothing new for me. But, the latest incident of this unsettling nature took the cake. Which was really amazing considering I didn’t have a cake.
It came to pass thusly:
After spending the day January 20, following the Biden Inauguration, I stayed up really late watching the liberal media’s unbridled joy and jubilation at the demise of Donald Trump. This welcome event was indeed the source of much shouting and exaltation. Many giddy left-leaning media folks experienced a nigh pee-in-your pants exhilaration.
I was caught up in the excitement myself. At three in the morning I was still wide awake watching TV, sitting in my chair by the window in the den. While I had heard some feeble noises outside the window, I dismissed them as an animal of some sort sneaking about.
Then, out of the blue, someone yelling at the top of his lungs, screamed a really loud Indian war whoop through the window – within just a foot or so from where I sat. Hidden in the darkness, the source of the war whoop was unseen; but a bone-chilling, horrifying presence nonetheless, and close, way too close.
A real B-Western Movie terrifying Indian war whoop. It damn near knocked me out of my chair and almost gave me a heart attack. Another one.
“WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO!!!” Mental images of fearsome feathers, sharp tomahawks, and warpaint flashed across my mind.
I knew at once that cardiac-arresting shout did not come from a possum or polecat. Stunned, I could not believe my ears. I’m satisfied such a hellacious Indian war whoop was the last sound ever heard by General Custer.
Having Indian war whoops shouted through your darkened window at three in the morning was certainly different. And I had no idea who could have been the perpetrator. It could have been one of the neighborhood thug juvenile delinquents, or possibly, an alcohol or dope-addled adult who wandered down the road and saw my light.
I’ll never know, thankfully. I’m at the age now that physical problems make it difficult to get up and down. But, I managed to finally struggle to a vertical position, get my shootin’ arn, and open the door to look outside. Wasted energy, as it turned out. There was no homicidal, loud-mouth Indian to be seen. Not even a possum or ‘coon.
I thought about calling the cops, but decided against it. I didn’t want to hear the jibes and ridicule if the incident was printed in the local paper’s police report. I could see it in my mind: “JL Strickland, the liberal Huguley Community Commie, reported someone giving loud Indian war whoops through his window at three in the morning.”
I didn’t want to have to deal with that guff. People can be so mean, especially Trump lovers.
Besides, it was the first visitor I’ve had in weeks.
Image Credit: photo of Gen. George Custer taken by Matthew Brady [May 23, 1865] via the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. (public domain).