Apparently my father lives in a neighborhood that could double for that on the show "Little House On The Prairie," as the guest room in which I am presently residing is within earshot of the rather upsetting and sleep-depriving sound of one animal killing another. The killer (he/she of the great growl) took not but 40 seconds to dispense with the victim (quaintly, that of tragic whimper.) I had no intention of running barefoot into the thicket and defending the creature (its species I can't begin to know) and yet I find myself restless, wrought with shame that mine is a masculinity that doesn't involve gun ownership. Had I a gun- I'd like to believe- I would, spite Darwin, have saved that creature. Still, "Had I a gun..." is the beginning of a sentence that nine times out of ten ends with either reference to a prison term or a very specific location of a very specific plot in a very specific cemetery, so I'll count my graces and settle for bitching and moaning and hoping against hope that I can get the fuck out of the sticks and hang my hat on a proper hook in a proper city before the summer is out.