Carlton gave his grandson a BB gun—
a real rifle. It had a caliber.
“After breakfast I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Oh, boy!” Dad was blasé. Mom got angry.
“I thought we had an agreement, Carlton.”
“It comes with safety lessons, don’t worry,”
he winked at the boy, “taught by the master.”
“He’s too young.” “You’re too protective, mother.”
“Ralph?” Mom turned, but dad was in another
room, a vote in absentia.
Carlton barked at the boy who’d said “Pweee!”
with the sight to his eye, aiming at Buck,
the old retriever drowsing on the hearth.
“You’re responsible now for protecting
your family and yourself.” But his daughter,
when he glanced at her, looked livid. “Go back
to L.A.,” she thought. “Have a heart attack.”
|By Michael Fleischmann|