The Big Daddy has some odd habits. I don't ask why anymore. He does strange things that I have to ignore or I'll go crazy.
For years he has waged a one-man war on squirrels. Chasing them out of the yard, throwing things at them, cussing at them in the backyard when they were in his garden. Sometimes he'd jump up in the middle of dinner yelling, "Sonofabitch" and I knew he was about to go Squirrel Chasing.
A rodent. Outdoors.
At a party we were at he was telling someone that he doesn't have to worry about the squirrels anymore which was news to me. The population has been decimated, he said with a smirk. Decimated.
He had been talking with a neighbor who was doing yard work when the entrails of a squirrel were falling out of a tree onto his picnic table.
The Mighty Hawk has moved into Mayberry and found a village of food.
What will The Big Daddy do with his time if he doesn't have squirrels to chase?
Besides the bags and buckets of tomatoes currently in the dining room, there are buckets of pond water in the basement.
Buckets. Of. Pond. Water. Indoors.
I am Charlie Babbitt.
He is Rainman.
He's a good driver.