Longtime readers will know that my husband’s real name is not “Doo.” The nickname came about after a controversial 2009 raccoon incident that resulted in him going out on our lawn after midnight with a pellet gun and no shirt, cussin’ up a storm. Being a native Kentuckian and having endured many hillbilly jabs through the years, I immediately went to one of my favorite films, “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” about country singer Loretta Lynn and her husband, “Doo.”
I bring all of this up because over the weekend we experienced an almost identical scenario to our original Butcher Holler event 10 years ago. I awoke to weird noises outside our bedroom window, at first thinking it was one of our kids and then wondering if the wind was blowing around the porch furniture. When I went to investigate, nothing seemed out of the ordinary; our ferocious guard dog Libby was simply lazing in the hallway. Ruling out intruders and zombies, I returned to bed but eventually had to wake Doo, who immediately jumped into action. Naked.
He soon discovered a giant raccoon skulking along our roofline and began banging on the wall, yelling “mf”er” in a strange voice. Doo then opened the window to try and, I don’t know, scare it? Mind you, this side of our house faces a major road, and he is completely nude, backlit in all his glory. All I could do was giggle. Here we go again.
He briefly debated driving to his parents for the gun, just as he did on that fateful night, but thankfully, wisdom prevailed. We both went back to sleep.
Yep, that’s my Doo. Peace out.
