The burgler

So last night at about 3 in the morning I shoot out of bed because I hear someone outside my bedroom door. It sounds like someone is trying to pick the lock on the front door. I’m about ready to piss my pants. In my slumber-stupor, I fly out of bed and grab the shotgun that sits propped up in the corner and pull the double barreled antique Belgian Browning over and under from its case. At this point everything is a fog. Hell, I’m still half asleep. But as much as I hate to even contemplate actually aiming the damn thing at anyone and having to make a decision to pull the trigger, I know if someone is trying to break in, and harm myself or my daughter, I will. I fumble through the place where I stash the 12 gage shells, grab em, and pop open the breach. I don’t hear anything suspicious anymore, but I slide the shells into the barrel, and it makes that unmistakable “thunk” sound as they slide in. I know if there is a burglar in the house, and he hears it, he’ll know what it is. But just to be sure, I take the shells out and close the breach. Hell know that sound for sure. Once more I load the gun, all of this just to make sure the SOB will know I’m awake and loaded. I slowly creep out of my room (with the breach open, so I don’t shoot my foot off or something) and creep around the house. I check on my sleeping daughter, yep she’s OK. And I look out all the windows. Nuthin’ there. So I sit on the couch for about 15 minutes and I don’t hear a damn thing. Then I hear it again. I slowly walk over to the living room window and peek out. It’s a flippin raccoon. Scratching against the door. I pull the shells out of the shotgun, shake my head, put up the gun and go back to bed. Good night.