We shot at rabbits with a pellet gun.
My parents loved their garden and their yard, and worked in it with a fervor that, for example, I did not see in their eyes when we went to church on Sundays. Church was a duty, an obligation. Gardening was a rite, and a right.
In our yard, we had a vegetable garden that grew mostly rhubarb, and some tomatoes. In the flower garden along the back fence, the one that separated our backyard from the Herros, and which served to provide privacy for Mrs. Herro’s sunbathing – she wore a suit, but sunbathing was a scandal!, then, in Hartland – in that flower garden were roses and other plants my mom tried in vain to teach us the names of, if only to keep us from pulling the plants that were not weeds out with their unwelcome brethren.
“A weed is any plant that grows where you don’t want it,” my mom would tell me, 35 years later, maybe forgetting (maybe remembering) how many plants had grown where she did not want them.
Perched in the window of my brother’s room, we were allowed, if we saw rabbits in the flower beds, to shoot at them with pellet guns. A pellet gun cannot kill a rabbit (I think, now), but it scared them off.
Nowadays, my backyard is wild. I do not know the names of even the plants I have deliberately put in the ground. I see rabbits every day.
In 250=1, I write stories that are exactly 250 words long, including the title. Now, some of those stories are nonfiction! Here's a list with links to every 250 word story I've ever written.