Monday, March 07, 2005
Cue the banjo
The call crackled over the scanner around 7 p.m.: "We have a man saying someone shot his horse on Holmes Lane." I had filed all of my copy for the day and this was something I had never heard on the scanner so I headed out to the scene.
Holmes Lane, I found out, is very far away and, in fact, barely exists. After driving for about 30 minutes, as vestiges of civilization disappeared into the rural darkness with each mile, I drove right past Holmes Lane, not noticing the unmarked dirt road until my second pass.
When I did figure out that it was probably the road I was looking for I hesitated to go. Holmes Lane is a one-lane dirt road in the backwater of the already backwater area where I live and at 7:30 p.m. it was pitch dark and intimidating. But I went, my car bouncing and sliding on the gravel and nothing but darkness on either side of me until I got to the very end of the road where three people were standing next to a pick up truck.
Eyeing an escape route the entire time, I rolled down my window and, as confidently as I could muster, I said, "Hi there, I'm with The Advocate and I heard someone reported their horse was shot. Do y'all know anything about that?"
A flannel-clad man wearing a winter hat with the ear flaps down and sporting very few teeth stepped forward and, pointing to a small horse tied to a fence, told me he was the one who called the Sheriff's Office.
I got out of my car was immediately enveloped in the creepy darkness and insect noises unique to the rural deep South. Adding to the surreal situation were the loud bellows coming from various unseen animals on the ear flap man's farm.
The farmer shined a flashlight on his wounded horse and, indeed, a small bullet hole near the animal's stomach heaved up and down with each labored breath. The horse wasn't doing well (it actually collapsed while I was talking to the guy) and the local vet said he didn't have the expertise to perform the complex operation it would take to remove the bullet and possibly save the horse.
According to the farm owner, this was just the latest in a string of animal shootings on his farm. He said a crazy old man down the road had killed 15 of his hogs, blew away four of his dogs with a shotgun and had killed various other animals on nearby farms. At this point I vaguely recalled something I had read about how most serial killers get their start by torturing and killing animals. This coupled with Baton Rouge's knack for producing such psycopaths and my utter isolation and vulnerability at that moment made for a disquieting situation.
Eventually, Sheriff's deputies arrived (yes, I beat them out there. I'm getting a little too good at my job and I routinely get to scenes as the cops arrive. I'm hoping I don't get to write the "I got shot" blog entry, although you have to admit it would be a cool story) and I got the man's number to follow up with him. Rumbling down the dirt road on my way out I was pleased: I got a truly weird cultural exchange, a good story and a possible article and I didn't even have to squeal like a pig.
Holmes Lane, I found out, is very far away and, in fact, barely exists. After driving for about 30 minutes, as vestiges of civilization disappeared into the rural darkness with each mile, I drove right past Holmes Lane, not noticing the unmarked dirt road until my second pass.
When I did figure out that it was probably the road I was looking for I hesitated to go. Holmes Lane is a one-lane dirt road in the backwater of the already backwater area where I live and at 7:30 p.m. it was pitch dark and intimidating. But I went, my car bouncing and sliding on the gravel and nothing but darkness on either side of me until I got to the very end of the road where three people were standing next to a pick up truck.
Eyeing an escape route the entire time, I rolled down my window and, as confidently as I could muster, I said, "Hi there, I'm with The Advocate and I heard someone reported their horse was shot. Do y'all know anything about that?"
A flannel-clad man wearing a winter hat with the ear flaps down and sporting very few teeth stepped forward and, pointing to a small horse tied to a fence, told me he was the one who called the Sheriff's Office.
I got out of my car was immediately enveloped in the creepy darkness and insect noises unique to the rural deep South. Adding to the surreal situation were the loud bellows coming from various unseen animals on the ear flap man's farm.
The farmer shined a flashlight on his wounded horse and, indeed, a small bullet hole near the animal's stomach heaved up and down with each labored breath. The horse wasn't doing well (it actually collapsed while I was talking to the guy) and the local vet said he didn't have the expertise to perform the complex operation it would take to remove the bullet and possibly save the horse.
According to the farm owner, this was just the latest in a string of animal shootings on his farm. He said a crazy old man down the road had killed 15 of his hogs, blew away four of his dogs with a shotgun and had killed various other animals on nearby farms. At this point I vaguely recalled something I had read about how most serial killers get their start by torturing and killing animals. This coupled with Baton Rouge's knack for producing such psycopaths and my utter isolation and vulnerability at that moment made for a disquieting situation.
Eventually, Sheriff's deputies arrived (yes, I beat them out there. I'm getting a little too good at my job and I routinely get to scenes as the cops arrive. I'm hoping I don't get to write the "I got shot" blog entry, although you have to admit it would be a cool story) and I got the man's number to follow up with him. Rumbling down the dirt road on my way out I was pleased: I got a truly weird cultural exchange, a good story and a possible article and I didn't even have to squeal like a pig.
