Counting for Thunder by Phillip Irwin Cooper

Author:Phillip Irwin Cooper [Cooper, Phillip Irwin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781635554519
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2019-04-01T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

RRRRRRRRRRRoooooooooowwwwwwwww. The piercing wail of a troubled cat calls from somewhere in the distance as I snake down the creek trail, briefly catching the silhouette of my father standing under one of the water oaks at the top of the hollow.

RRRRRRRRooooooowww. The cat sounds worse for wear as I squat next to the creek, covertly tossing water on my face and under my arms, a poor attempt to generate nonexistent jogger’s sweat.

“You must have gotten off early this morning,” he says, squatting to tie his shoe.

Pulling the cap down over my forehead, I attempt to ignore my father’s unintentional double entendre while I conceal my face.

“You check any o’ them crawfish traps?” Garrett asks.

“Yeah,” I say, referring to the tiny boxes he rigs on the creek beds to catch the mudbugs he uses for bait. “Not a lot going on.” Louisiana may hold the crown for quantity, but Alabama has more species of crawfish than any other state. Bass love to see them squirming on the end of a hook.

“What, couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope,” I say, attempting to make my way past him, as if he can read my mind like a sideshow psychic.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRoooooooooooooowwwwwww. It seems highly probable this yowl could be the anguished mystery cat’s final call.

“What the devil…” I say.

“You gotta see this thing,” Garrett says, heading toward the swimming pool. “Come on.”

I follow my father into the sunlight where he produces a remote control from his pocket. He aims it at a black cube the size of a shoebox near the carport. “You know all the trouble we’ve been having with crows?” he says.

“What trouble?” I wasn’t aware crows caused strife of any kind.

“Well, you know,” Garrett says, screwing up his face, “a crow’s just a crow.”

RRRRRRRRooooooooowwwwwwww.

“This is a predator call,” he says, pointing the remote at the box and flipping a switch, excited as a kid at Christmas. “Now, see, this is a house cat in distress. And when that crow hears that house cat, he’s gonna come a’ flyin’. And I’m gonna be waiting for him with my .22 rifle. No, wait,” he says, pulling the instructions out of his pocket, scanning them. “The coyotes are gonna come for the distressed house cat.”

“What coyotes?”

Another click, this time a cock-a-doodle-do.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That would be,” Garrett says, reading, “the pleading chicken. And that attracts—lemme see—that attracts the coyotes, as well.”

“Gonna be a pretty tough day around here for coyotes.”

Baaaaaahhhh.

“Let me guess,” I say, “pleading sheep?”

“Bleating billy goat.”

“Attracts?”

“General predators. Gray foxes, barn owl, what have you.”

The lunacy of my father and I actually having such a lively, illuminating conversation about a subject of such grisliness strikes me as peculiar.

“What else you got?” I ask, feeling less and less than ever like the shamed nine-year-old who pulled the trigger on the turkey gobbler.

BBBBBBwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaahhh. Something between a shriek and a squawk.

Garrett grins from ear to ear. “Whining baby cottontail. Probably caught on a fence or something and can’t get out.”

I make a face and ask for another, my eagerness to continue the discourse overriding the guilt I feel in this twisted game of Darwinism.

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