Few things upset my metabolism more than being shot at.  I am a cop, so it's certainly not outside the realm of the imagination, but I never expect to have bullets whizzing by me in my own pasture. Yesterday was a bad day. Or . . . it was a good day. Kinda depends upon how you look at things. . .

Turn barn water on for the first time after hard freeze. The sound of spraying water is never a good thing. It wasn't then either.  Cuss. Pipes were busted in the stallion's stall.  Lovely . . .

Other Half is on-duty, so it's a One-Woman work crew - make that a One-Woman-One-Border-Collie-Work-Crew, since Lily is always by my side.  Border Collie and I head to Home Depot. Buy PVC hardware and PVC pipe cutter. Get home to discover that I already have a PVC pipe cutter and I failed to get a key piece of hardware.  Cuss. Go back to Home Depot.

Return home to fix pipes. Leave Border Collie in yard while I toil behind Stallion's stall. Fail to hear ominous soundtrack music playing in the background. Hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire in my pasture. Hear bullets rip through barn tin.  Holy shit!  (YES!  I SAID IT! and lots more!)

Race out of tin barn towards gunfire, screaming "Stop!  Stop! You're shooting at ME!!!"  (and lots of cuss words that cannot be printed on a family-friendly program)   Bullets continue to cut through the air. They are coming from the forest, across the canal on the south side of the property.  At this point, I am completely hysterical.  I can hear the bullets hitting tin, splintering wood, and whizzing past me on both sides.  I continue to scream at the forest. 

"Stop shooting!  Hey *#@!er! STOP SHOOTING!!!!"

There is a slight lull in the gunfire.  I scream again.  Does the shooter hear me?  The bullets ring out again.  Nope, he was re-loading.

I am beside myself with hysteria.  I can hear the bullets whizz by, just feet away from me. They say, "You never hear the one that gets you."   It wasn't comforting.  Friends and neighbors, those are not comforting words when you are standing in a pasture, listening to bullets ping around you.  I am not stupid enough to believe the barn is a safe place to run either.  It's a tin barn.  My only hope is to stop the shooter.

As I turn to run out of the pasture, I call Other Half on the phone and scream at him to get on the police radio and have the county deputies get out to the street across the canal from our pasture NOW!  I vaguely hear a 4-Wheeler bouncing down the road as I leap into my pick-up and roar off.  My mother calls me to inform me that the Constable next door to her is on his way to stop the shooting too.  He is on the 4-wheeler. 

I criss-cross the county roads towards my shooter as my mother informs me that the gunfire is still ringing through the pasture.  By the time I get to his house, I am a Crazy Woman.  The Sheriff's Department is on the way. My Constable Neighbor has already arrived.  This is a good thing, because someone needs to save The Shooter from Me!  By the time I slam my truck into park (so fast that I probably ripped out my transmission) the Shooter has already put up his gun.  My Constable Neighbor is sitting calmly on his 4-Wheeler.  A dozen people are standing on the Shooter's porch, watching the show. 

I descend upon the Shooter, screaming like a banshee. I am not dropping the F-Bomb, I am slinging F-Bombs like missiles.

The Shooter objects to my language in front of his children.

"Oh really?!!!  Oh really?!!!  Well I, f-ing object to being shot at!!!!  (and the f-missiles continued to fly)

He suggests that I might want to get off his property. This unleashes more exploding f*bombs, so he backs down.

Friends and Neighbors, it was ugly.  I was a hysterical crazy person.  The sound of whining bullets whizzing around me was still fresh in my mind. The Shooter informs me that the bullets hitting my barn cannot be his. Yes, he has been shooting, but he is a LONG way from my house, and he has been shooting at a box.

A box.

A cardboard box. 

This Rocket Scientist has been shooting a 9mm handgun at a cardboard box on the ground. 

There is nothing behind that box . . . but my F#@*ing HOME!!!! 

I begin screaming at him again. My Neighbor sat on his 4-Wheeler, afraid to move.  (He told me later that he had never seen me like this, and was a little afraid of me.) My Neighbor has obviously never had bullets whizz past his waist on a sunny Sunday afternoon. . . over and over and over again . . . It tends to push one into a rage.

Other Half continues to call me on the phone.  Oh yeah . . . him. I realize that he has been calling for a while.  Answer phone.  Other Half is hysterical when he finds out that I have confronted the Shooter before the deputies have arrived on the scene.  I point out to him that the shooting HAD TO STOP!  I didn't have time to wait for deputies to arrive. I had horses, cows, sheep, AND DOGS that were getting shot at.  He informs me that his radio went out and I must call the county dispatcher NOW.  Okay.  Mometarily quit screaming at Shooter long enough to call the dispatcher.

Yes, Yes the scene is under control.  (Well, I'm not really under control, but the shooting has stopped.)  Confirm address.  Yes, I see the deputies flying towards me now. No, no one is hurt.  (yet . . . ) Realize at this point that I may have dying livestock in my pasture as I stand on the phone talking to the dispatcher.  Resist urge to beat Shooter over the head with his *#@!ing cardboard box.

Three deputies zoom up.  Shooter is actually relieved. There is finally someone here to rescue him from The Crazy Woman. 

I assure Deputies that the scene is under control (translated: I have momentarily suppressed my overwhelming desire to choke the shit  out of The Rocket Scientist.)  We walk out to his cardboard box.  They are amused to hear that he didn't realize how far 9 mm bullets will travel. (Clearly they are unfamiliar with bullets whizzing around them while they fix busted pipes.)  They point out that his cardboard box is woefully ill-equipped to stop 9 mm bullets.  He says he is sorry.  He is very sorry.  He is sorry that a little target practice on Superbowl Sunday has unleashed some Psycho Woman like a mummy's curse from a tomb. He dearly wishes she would crawl back under her rock now, but even his pea-brain can understand that Crazy Woman is hanging to sanity by a Very Narrow Thread and he doesn't want to tip her over the edge again. Trust me, it wouldn't have taken much.  I was quite prepared to have Other Half bail me out of jail for assault.

It crossed my mind. It really did.  I weighed it. Understood it. And accepted it. If Rocket Scientist had been anything but sorry, I was quite prepared to assault him and take my punishment.  (yes, I was a Psycho Woman . . . I don't think I've ever been in such a rage.) 

So the Deputies assure our Rocket Scientist that if Psycho Woman wishes to press charges, he will be arrested for Deadly Conduct - A Very Bad Thing.  I consider doing this, but figure that nothing good will actually be accomplished that hasn't already been accomplished.  Rocket Scientist now realizes that A Crazy Woman lives on the other side of the canal.  I am ready to go home now. I must check my livestock to make sure that only the barn and the fencing was shot.  At this point I realize that if Border Collie had been with me, she could have been killed.  Had Border Collie been shot, Other Half WOULD have been bailing me out of jail. There would have been nothing to stop me from killing Rocket Scientist.

And who knows, that may have been a public service.

A cardboard box. 

A freaking cardboard box . . .