Laughing Coyote

My dad used to trap and hunt coyotes on our ranch for two main reasons. Firstly, he wanted to protect our cows and their calves from the threat of coyotes. A fully grown coyote could easily take down a newborn calf, so it was crucial to keep them at bay. Secondly, the fur of a coyote was quite valuable, ranging from $75 to $100. In those days, that amount of money was significant, especially if you managed to kill one during the late fall or winter when the fur was in prime condition. During one spring when I was around 11 years old, there were numerous coyote sightings on our ranch. As a precaution, my dad started carrying his .45 revolver with him whenever we went to feed the cows. One day, while I was riding with him in our old blue truck, we spotted a coyote on a nearby hill. "Hang on!" he exclaimed, stepping on the gas pedal and swiftly turning the truck around, We raced over the hills, the truck's engine roaring and tires kicking up dust, I held on tightly, fearing for my life, as we chased after that poor, mangy critter. The coyote ran at full speed, and just when we were about to catch up, it would dart left or right, narrowly avoiding being run over. Dad would sharply turn the wheel in the direction it went, and with a cloud of dust trailing behind us, we would try again. Finally, the coyote seemed to tire out and stood still on a small knoll, panting with its tongue hanging out. Dad slowed the truck down, pulling up to within 30 yards of the animal, "Roll your window down," he instructed me. I obeyed, and Dad took out his .45 revolver, extending his arm in front of my face as he aimed out the passenger side window.

BOOM!

I was shocked, everything seemed to blur, my eyes welled up with tears, and I couldn't see or hear anything. Inside the confined space of the pickup cab, the powerful discharge of the large caliber handgun was overwhelming. I felt completely deafened and disoriented. Eventually, my vision cleared, and the first thing I saw was the coyote still standing on the knoll, panting. Dad was never a great shot with any type of gun.
After a few minutes, or maybe seconds, or even hours, the roaring sound and high-pitched ringing in my ears started to fade. It felt like a train was rushing towards me. Gradually, I regained my ability to hear, although the ringing persisted. I looked at my dad, and I could barely make out his mouth moving as I strained to hear his words. "Are you alright?" he asked. "No. My ears hurt really bad," I replied. "You'll be fine," he assured me.

We headed back home, and by the time we arrived, I had mostly recovered, except for the persistent ringing in my ears. It lasted for a few days. Later on, during the school year, we had hearing tests, and I discovered that I had a permanent high-frequency hearing loss in my left ear. The audiologist explained that it was likely due to a blown eardrum. At the time, I didn't fully understand what that meant, but today I have to wear expensive hearing aids in order to hear properly. Thanks dad.