Unruly gang of youths terrorizes Falcon area

Originally published Aug. 29, 2010    

A gang of unruly youths lurks near my home. 


The young hoodlums have been jumping out in front of my vehicles and harassing my wife and me almost from the day we moved in. They also creep onto our property in the dead of night and steal whatever they want.

Calling law enforcement would do no good. They fade into the surroundings as soon as a search is mounted. So far, no one's been injured, but I think it's only a matter of time.

They crouch in a group, hiding, until our truck is almost to them. Then, one young punk darts in front of the headlights. He runs along the road in front of us, daring us to hit him, it seems, then dashes to the side and disappears.


I always slam on the brakes, cussin', and sometimes Joyce gives a little shriek.

I imagine it's some sort of initiation or something, young bucks feeling their oats and trying to prove their courage to their buddies and any cute females that happen to be watching.

I can imagine the conversation as they wait to spring: "Whose turn is it?" "Billy hasn't done it in two weeks. I think he's chicken!" "Am not!" "Am too! I mean, are too!" "Joey hasn't done it lately either. Neither has Charlie." "Quit stalling! Here they come." "All right, all right!" 


It's typical teenager behavior.

If that isn't bad enough, sometimes the youths follow us up the road and come right onto our property. I've seen evidence they've stolen carrots and radishes from the garden. Sometimes I let the dogs loose on 'em, but they dive into brush piles and hide.

I've been sorely tempted to shoot the gang members and then cook and eat them. That's how my dad and grandpa used to handle it.

They'd chase them through the woods with dogs, and when they caught up with them, they'd blow their heads off, drag the corpses home and skin 'em.

Mom would throw the pieces in a big pot and stew them for a couple hours. Sometimes you'd find buckshot with your teeth, but that was good eatin'.

Tasted just like chicken.

Dad would distribute the feet to us kids. It was a little gross, but it was supposed to be good luck to carry them around. We'd take them to school and show them off, letting our friends rub them on their faces.

(To anybody who doesn't realize I'm talking about a gang of rabbits by this point, well, I can't help you.)

Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.