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Description
Now my father was a kid born in Wyoming, and moved around his whole life- Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Pennsylvania, and now Massachusetts- so I'd call him a pretty cultured sorta person. The sort of person with many stories to tell, and a very many good ones at that- this is one such story.

My dad calls himself the prairie dog hunter, because according to him these fluffy little things are the devil's agents, sent from hell to torture him through childhood- until one day, he was able to conquer.

In order to get to his grandma Zip's house, he would follow the stream behind his house for a few miles, then cut through an old field to her back yard. Beneath this field lay a labyrinth of prairie dog tunnels.

these prairie dogs would pop up, chatter at him annoyingly- and then the moment he ran over to grab the little suckers they'd drop back down and chatter at him tauntingly from the darkness- "nya nya- stupid slow human cannot catch me!"

On the off chance that my dad would catch one, the evil prairie dogs would viciously bite his hand- blood would gush out and my dad would drop it in shock. Then down it would go into it's lair, and continue to chatter insults and taunts.

My dad spent many months being harassed by these little suckers, until one day he came up with a brilliant plan.

He strut through the field into grandma Zip's yard that day, ignoring the prairie dog's cruel barks this time, confident in his plot.

He had run it by his older brothers- brutally cocky and severe prankers themselves- and even though they all doubted his personal success, they agreed that it could potentially work.

So my father disappeared into the house, and was gone for a long time. All the prairie dogs popped out of their holes, watching with suspicion and curiosity, awaiting the return of their favorite victim.

And then he came out the back gate, clad in his grandfather's thick leather aviator jacket, his helmet from the war, and even thicker black leather gloves. He held in one hand a fishing net, and in the other an old metal bucket.

The prairie dogs were silent for a moment, then they all began to chatter at once- laughing hystericaly at this stupid human with his oversized uniform and pointless weapons- what could he POSSIBLY do to them?

Well, my dad ignored their taunts, and traipsed through the field to the creek. He then filled his bucket with water, and carried it back to the nearest prairie dog's hole.

It ducked down into it's lair, chattering at him from the dark, its beady reflective eyes the only things to be seen.

Dad carefully placed the net over the hole, and then poured the water into it.

The praise dog barked loudly in protest, and after realizing the imminent flooding of it's home meant it's downing- the fiend shot up out of the hole- and straight into the net!

Triumphent, my father grabbed up the prairie dog- and this time instead of biting into the soft flesh of a ten year old's hand, the blunt powerful teeth met hard, impermeable leather.

My dad cried out in glee, and sprinted back to the house, tossing the prairie dog in the old metal trash cans. he did not fear for their suffocating, as his brothers had riddled the cans with holes from bebe guns in the past.

The prairie dog jumped at the sides, chattering loudly and obnoxiously at him as my dad watched smugly. He placed the lid back on the can for good measure, then turned back to the field- he had more work to do.

At the end of the afternoon he snuck back into the house and replaced his armor- which he had taken without asking- and put the fishing supplies back into the shed where they belonged.

During the walk home that night, he smiled broadly to himself, enjoying the silence that had fallen over the field. The remaining prairie dogs now knew who was boss, and did not appear above the ground, nor made a single sound to him. They could still hear their captured comrades in their fortress behind the gate.

The following day however his mother took out the trash, only to find a can full of furious prairie dogs. Though he was forced to release them, and promised never to 'hunt' them again, they all knew who had won this war. For the duration of that summer, not a single prairie dog made a sound as he crossed that field.

They say that whenever a prairie dog hears footsteps above their home, they all feel a shiver of terror, and know to stay inside- for the hunter has returned.

Description
Now my father was a kid born in Wyoming, and moved around his whole life- Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Pennsylvania, and now Massachusetts- so I'd call him a pretty cultured sorta person. The sort of person with many stories to tell, and a very many good ones at that- this is one such story.

My dad calls himself the prairie dog hunter, because according to him these fluffy little things are the devil's agents, sent from hell to torture him through childhood- until one day, he was able to conquer.

In order to get to his grandma Zip's house, he would follow the stream behind his house for a few miles, then cut through an old field to her back yard. Beneath this field lay a labyrinth of prairie dog tunnels.

these prairie dogs would pop up, chatter at him annoyingly- and then the moment he ran over to grab the little suckers they'd drop back down and chatter at him tauntingly from the darkness- "nya nya- stupid slow human cannot catch me!"

On the off chance that my dad would catch one, the evil prairie dogs would viciously bite his hand- blood would gush out and my dad would drop it in shock. Then down it would go into it's lair, and continue to chatter insults and taunts.

My dad spent many months being harassed by these little suckers, until one day he came up with a brilliant plan.

He strut through the field into grandma Zip's yard that day, ignoring the prairie dog's cruel barks this time, confident in his plot.

He had run it by his older brothers- brutally cocky and severe prankers themselves- and even though they all doubted his personal success, they agreed that it could potentially work.

So my father disappeared into the house, and was gone for a long time. All the prairie dogs popped out of their holes, watching with suspicion and curiosity, awaiting the return of their favorite victim.

And then he came out the back gate, clad in his grandfather's thick leather aviator jacket, his helmet from the war, and even thicker black leather gloves. He held in one hand a fishing net, and in the other an old metal bucket.

The prairie dogs were silent for a moment, then they all began to chatter at once- laughing hystericaly at this stupid human with his oversized uniform and pointless weapons- what could he POSSIBLY do to them?

Well, my dad ignored their taunts, and traipsed through the field to the creek. He then filled his bucket with water, and carried it back to the nearest prairie dog's hole.

It ducked down into it's lair, chattering at him from the dark, its beady reflective eyes the only things to be seen.

Dad carefully placed the net over the hole, and then poured the water into it.

The praise dog barked loudly in protest, and after realizing the imminent flooding of it's home meant it's downing- the fiend shot up out of the hole- and straight into the net!

Triumphent, my father grabbed up the prairie dog- and this time instead of biting into the soft flesh of a ten year old's hand, the blunt powerful teeth met hard, impermeable leather.

My dad cried out in glee, and sprinted back to the house, tossing the prairie dog in the old metal trash cans. he did not fear for their suffocating, as his brothers had riddled the cans with holes from bebe guns in the past.

The prairie dog jumped at the sides, chattering loudly and obnoxiously at him as my dad watched smugly. He placed the lid back on the can for good measure, then turned back to the field- he had more work to do.

At the end of the afternoon he snuck back into the house and replaced his armor- which he had taken without asking- and put the fishing supplies back into the shed where they belonged.

During the walk home that night, he smiled broadly to himself, enjoying the silence that had fallen over the field. The remaining prairie dogs now knew who was boss, and did not appear above the ground, nor made a single sound to him. They could still hear their captured comrades in their fortress behind the gate.

The following day however his mother took out the trash, only to find a can full of furious prairie dogs. Though he was forced to release them, and promised never to 'hunt' them again, they all knew who had won this war. For the duration of that summer, not a single prairie dog made a sound as he crossed that field.

They say that whenever a prairie dog hears footsteps above their home, they all feel a shiver of terror, and know to stay inside- for the hunter has returned.