Everyone knows Quill Gordon wears steel-toed drinking shoes and even a helmet from time to time. That said, he is not one of the drunks in the title of this post.
Shortly past 2:00 a.m. one late-September night, I woke up to the sound of what I took to be screaming outside. Dashing to the open window I saw, beneath the waning gibbous moon, a figure staggering about and whooping it up for all he was worth. While 2:00 a.m. might be the time, my dooryard is not the place for such drunken antics and I became consumed by the desire to put an end to his nonsense immediately.
Crashing into the frame of the bedroom door while pulling on some pants delayed me for just a minute or so (I think) but from there it was clear sailing as I made my way outside to give that booze hound a piece of my somewhat foggy mind. He was tricky, though, and ran to the other side of the house so I ran back indoors to the living room, where I banged on the windows and shouted obscenities as he ran by. I thought to cut him off at the porch as he made it around for a second circuit but he headed for the draw, where he hid in a thicket of willows and barked unintelligible nonsense at me while I threw rocks. Continue reading