The Fox and the Hooter

I do something terrible every time I drive passed the St Francis Bay golf course (the fairway runs parallel to the main road). I wait until an unsuspecting golfer takes their back swing on the 15th hole (a long par 5) and then slam my car’s hooter! The result is exhilarating. There’s nothing like causing someone to duff their tea off shot, while you drive away like a bank robber in a getaway car. I’ve claimed many a scalp in my time— pensioners, middle aged businessmen, golfing sugar mommies, multi racial four balls, family four balls, solitary week day golfers. Many have sworn at me, some have leapt the fence and come running and several have pulled lewd signs; I’m still waiting for someone to chase me in a golf cart.
“You’re going to get donnered one day,” Uncle Jonah often tells me.
“None sense,” I’ve always insisted, “who can catch someone driving in a car?”
“Your time will come. Don’t think these things go unnoticed.”
“Yes, yes, yes…”
***
About a week ago I spotted a crew of youngsters setting up on the fifteenth hole. What luck! I was on my way to the shop for something unimportant, so I did laps along the main road, back and forth, waiting until the biggest of them set up his tee shot. He was a bulky kid with a lamb’s wool bokkie, a streaked mullet and bad temper (I would soon learn of this last trait). Let’s call him Dwayne.
Dwayne set up his ball and took two practice swings. I adjusted the pace of my car, so that I’d be right beside him as he took his back swing. As Dwayne pulled back I let rip on the hooter: “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP.” I was still pressing the hooter when Dwayne hurled his one club at the car like a javelin and then hopped the course fence like a hurdlest.
I smelled trouble and darted home without going back to the shop. If that’s what Dwayne was capable of, I’d best steer clear.
***
A few days later, I decided to walk to the shop. The wind was howling onshore and I felt in need of a spot of exercise.
I took a slow walk passed the gold course, seeing if I could spot any former victims. There was no one I recognized. Still, I had a good time imagining getting a few of the players I could see.
I got to the road that leads towards my house, right near a bushy paddock that leads towards my front gate. I was at the corner when my mom drove up beside me, in my car. She opened the window and said, “Bugs! I’m just going to borrow your car for an hour! That okay?”
“Sure thing mommy!” I said, in my cutest voice.
I waved as she drove off, and carried on walking.
As my mom was out of sight I heard a deep voice, like a fog horn— void of pitch— ring out terrible. “AH Bukthi! I think you and I have somth-thing to talk abouth!”
Merciful Heavens, it was Dwayne and his friends; all hopped up on criotene, hormones and god knows what else.
I didn’t have time to scream— I just ran. I looked back and saw them piling into a bakkie, and come driving straight at me. I turned into the bushy area and moved through the area like springbuck in the veld. Over thorn trees and Port Jackson Willows I leapt, fully aware of Dwayne’s droning lisp calling out behind my back, “There he ithhh! Don’t let him geth away!”
At one point I fell over and lost my glasses; I picked myself up without worrying about them and moved on. I could hear they were on foot now, hot on my trail. I felt like a tired fox being chased by hunters and beagles. Eventually I got to my back fence and flew over it like a gymnast, relieved to be on home turf.
Maxi started barking at me (he’s not used to guests arriving by air mail), so I picked him, grabbed him by the snout and hid in his box. “Don’t move a muscle boy,” I whispered sternly in his ear, “these cretins will break us in half— you hear me?” Maxi nodded and promised to be quiet.
It was just like the scene in Lord Of The Rings, when Frodo is hiding from the Dark Riders. Dwayne and his oversized crew of teenaged friends leapt over the wall on all fours— like a frog. Maxi and I saw them at the same time and turned to stone.
They sniffed around the garden, examining pot plants and dog leashes, moving like ogres. Dwayne picked up a handful of soil and sniffed if deeply, “I know he’th Here!” barked Dwayne, “I can sthmell him!” he bellowed.
He moved closer to Maxi’s box, grunting and chortling awfully. I was trying to get my cellphone out my pocket— to phone the police, when someone called out from the road side, “I see him!”
In one foul motion the team of dark riders vacated my garden. Moments later I heard the bakkie spinning down the road, after some unfortunate bugger they thought was me. I plopped out of Maxi’s box with tears in my eyes, thankful to be alive. Uncle Jonah opened the front door, stepped out and looked down at me. “What happened?” he asked.