I heard the report of a rifle being fired as I walked across my backyard before sunrise.
Blam.
A pause, then:
Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.
It was near enough and loud enough that my dog looked at me with concern. She's easily spooked by fireworks, and this sound was similar. Pugs are sort of like human babies. They glance at a parent when something weird happens to gauge their reaction before deciding whether or not they should freak out. I didn't react, other than urging her to do her business.
For almost two decades I've gotten used to the sounds of weekend hunters taking down deer. Our rural subdivision was built next to acres of farm land, so it comes with the territory.
What occurred to me this morning, though, was wondering why it took this hunter seven shots. It's rare to hear more than four. And don't start with me on the whole, "There were actually two hunters alternating their shots." No. Not this time. After twenty years of this, I know what that sounds like. Not a single shot overlapped or came quicker than the next. These were spaced out and methodical.
Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.
What if I just heard a murder? Later today a cold, lifeless body in an orange vest will be found in the barren soybean field. The local police will come and knock on doors looking for witnesses. I'll tell them, "I was awake, before the sun rose over there," and I'll point in case they don't know which direction is east. Then I'll point further south at where I heard the man get shot. The police will leak my name to the press. The killer will decide to come after me because there mustn't be a witness who can testify to the killing of Chad. And sometime after midnight, I'll hear the sounds of someone breaking into my house to kill me. And my pug will look at me with concern. But I won't worry too much.
The dude can't shoot worth a shit.