The Wrath of Howard

I thought a lot recently about a good friend of mine named Howard. Howard was a bat that my family owned when I was but an innocent, healthy young buck in the prime of my life. My dad and I discovered Howard one day when he was teaching me how to hunt wolverines with my bare hands. As I approached a cornered wolverine my dad jumped up and down with excitement yelling manly encouragements at me, such slogans as “MESS EM UP!” and “THAT FURRY HELL BEAST AINT GOT NOTHIN ON YOU!” (For some reason my dad had it out for wolverines, he always referred to them as furry hell beasts)

I puffed on the massive cigar nonchalantly as I cracked my knuckles and twisted my neck. The hell beast snarled and growled, the snot dripping from his mouth. I stepped forward staring the wolverine down. It crouched protectively over a bat it caught somehow. My teeth clenched the cigar in a vice like grip, smoke wafted out of my nostrils into the cold winter air. My eyes narrowed, this must be why my dad despises wolverines, they kill needlessly. After dealing with the wolverine we headed home with little Howard the bat in my hands. I cradled him softly as the massive truck swerved and ramped towards my homestead.

Being the trooper that Howard was he healed up real nice. Soon he out grew what comforts we could provide him and we were forced to loose him on nature. That day my whole family shed a tear. We had many wonderful memories of Howard, how he would bite guests in the neck, how he would scare the neighbour’s dog and children off our lawn but most of all we remembered how he touched our hearts.
His beady little eyes saw through our rough interiors and into our very souls.