Back in the late 90s, I was on my first night patrol after having just gotten back from a gun class out of State. Along about 0500 Dispatch called, "Dispatch, Car 12."
The 0500 calls are always interesting, so I admit to some anticipation, "Go ahead."
"1100 Possum Drive, 911 call, report of a possible prowler."
I sighed. 1100 Possum Drive was a nice, middle-aged lady divorcee who called in a prowler about three times a week. Said prowler always being brush rubbing the siding on her house, or a cat, or the wind.
"10-4, en route."
I pulled up in front of the residence, and I can see the Reporting Party in the bay window, still clutching her cordless phone, and pointing frantically to the back of the house.
I admit to a well-concealed sigh, waved at her, and then began making my way around the outside of the house, no doubt to spend several minutes peering into the dark.
Imagine my surprise when I turned the back corner into the backyard and came nose to snout with a bloody huge feral hog. I remember well -- in the middle of that startle-response adrenaline dump -- seeing the bristles fly up on his chest. Kind of like he had just gotten centre-punched with a Winchester 127-grain +P+ 9mm. Like the kind I carried in my P7.
And I realize that I was standing in a text-book perfect speed-rock position.
I had just enough time to mentally pat myself on the back, and then the hog (metaphorically-speaking) looked down at the hole in his chest, said (again, metaphorically-speaking), "Oh, you [deleted]", and then headed my way with the obvious intention of adjusting my buttock-to-shoulder-blade ratio.
Not being entirely gormless, my body (not currently admiring the shot that started this whole episode) spun, took two steps, and flung me at the lower limbs of the nearest mesquite tree ... about those two steps ahead of the enraged pig.
So. There I am, hanging like a panicked sloth from the lower limbs by one ankle, one hand, and one wrist, while a Paleolithic-class hog stands below, loudly opining as to my ancestry and sexual proclivities, and daring me to come down.
Yeah, that's not happening. Unfortunately, my current suspended position means I can't get another shot off at the hog without winding up down on terra firma with said ambulatory chop -- with him at a decided advantage.
Worse, during the mad sprint for the tree, I seem to have dropped my walkie-talkie.
I resign myself to not going anywhere for a while. A sentiment obviously shared by Senor Puerco.
A lot longer later than I felt was absolutely necessary, I hear the sound of a DPS cruiser pull up outside. At last, think I, back-up. And not before time.
Indeed, back-up soon showed itself cautiously around the corner in the form of the DPS trooper assigned to our wee town. He scans the back-yard with his torch -- passing over me the first time, I might add -- before the beam settled on the hog. It then panned up.
There were snorting noises that I suspect may have been an attempt to conceal mirth. Not a very good attempt, but at least he tried.
"Shot the hog, didn't you?"
I snarled something that may have been less than courteous, but I plead long-term discomfort.
"I told you that dinky little 9mm wasn't any good, didn't I?"
I was attempting some form of come-back, when I hear the bark of a Texas DPS-issued Sig P220, and the .45 ACP round smacks the hog right behind the foreleg.
I know this, because I had a unique perspective on the second bristle spray of the morning. Which led the hog to announce -- at the top of his porcine lungs -- "You want a piece of me, too?"
And I watch the DPS trooper scramble to the top of an ancient outhouse with the alacrity and grace of a scalded-arsed ape.
"Nice shot, Tex" I snark from the comfort of my mesquite tree.
"Damn," replied that worthy, "That's a big hog."
I cast a sneer in his general direction, "Why don't you thump it a couple of more times?"
"Well", I snarl, twisting a bit, "I not in any position to do anything about this, so it's pretty much up to you."
The hog sends a grunt my way, letting me know I haven't been forgotten.
This pause is longer. Oh, for the love of ... "You dropped your bangstick, didn't you?"
"I had something on my mind!" There's another pause, contemplative this time, "I've got my .32 backup."
I can feel a facial tic developing.
This goes on until the sun rises, the hog trots off (with a firmly-cocked snook in our general direction), the trooper and I climb down and solemnly swear to never speak of this again.
Fast-forward about a year, and I'm in Dispatch when the local Game Warden staggers in, and heads for the coffee-pot with the same sort of intensity that a man three days under the Sahara sun heads for an oasis.
"You okay, Harry? I ask, slightly concerned.
"[Deleted] monster hog out by the T bar S," he mutters from around a soothing mug, "Took three rounds from my .450 Marlin. Didn't think the [deleted] was ever going to go down."
I'm mildly impressed. "Damn."
"Checked him over, found this under the skin on his chest." He displays a perfectly-mushroomed Winchester Ranger bullet. Probably about 127 grains, were I to guess, "Some damfool moron shot him with a 9mm sometime. Can you imagine that? Idiot. Some people shouldn't be let out without a minder."