Not sure if I have written about this before… if I have my apologies, drop me a line and I will find it and link back to the original blog post.

Any old how…. Many moons ago we lived in another country and the local post-master was very cute and charming but apparently …. so we were told…. his marriage was volatile. Let’s call him Fred which sounds nothing at all like Dave. He had a son named after him –  lets call him Little Fred.

As I know I have mentioned before, Alan was a volunteer fire-fighter, both here in Canada and in that other country.

So a call came in to 911. Scramble. Radios and phones going – ‘Fred’s been shot in the head.’ Cars, fire trucks, emergency vehicles flying out to Fred’s house while the town’s population of 903 (used to 906 before we moved to Canada) was either wandering down to the firehall/police station to listen or on the phone to each other. ‘I guess it happened, Fred’s wife finally shot him.’

Now there are protocols when a volunteer FF/EMT group gets to this kind of situation that means they cannot go in until the police have secured the scene but seriously… in reality…. protocols/schmotocols… at least back in those days. So their best and bravest volunteer went in – a lady called BettyLou and believe me, if you ever have a heart attack you want her to be show up, she will scare the bejeezuz out of you as she tells you to stop mucking about and get over it, and save your life, but as always I am digressing – and BettyLou  found ‘Fred’.

Only it was little Fred. His sister had shot him in the forehead with a BBgun pellet. BettyLou put her thumbs each side and popped that sucker out like a zit.

Both ‘Fred’s’ are alive and well as far as I know.