Shoot, Dammit!

When I was about fifteen years old my brother, who was four years younger, said to me one day, “It hurts Dad’s feelings that you don’t go hunting with us.”

         I said, “He knows I don’t enjoy it, I’m no good at it and with all the sports practices and games I barely have any time for my girlfriend.”

         He shrugged and said, “Well, I’m just telling you.”

         I couldn’t believe my dad was still mentioning me in the same breath with hunting because with the exception of my first hunt I knew that I had been a huge disappointment. I was ten when he took me on the first day of dove season. I was able to shoot some birds that day because they were so numerous I could have probably killed more with a long stick than I did firing two boxes of shells, but he was pleased. He didn’t notice my anxiety when it came time for me to join in the cleaning process. I was not made to remove the insides but assigned to pull off the feathers which was gross since it meant holding the headless birds. I guessed that the heads had been removed to assure that none of the birds was playing possum.

         Even though that first time had not been much fun I agreed to go again later in the season. Dad told me that he was placing me in the best spot but after an hour had passed without seeing a bird I quit looking. A little while later he startled me when he was suddenly standing there asking why I hadn’t taken a shot at the bird that had just flown over. When he noticed I had obviously been reading a comic book, he said it was time to go home.

         A few days later he came into my room and asked me why I didn’t like to hunt.

         I said, “I guess it’s because I’m a terrible shot, and maybe that’s because I try to shoot left handed.”

         Then he said, trying not to raise his voice, “but you are left handed.” Your brother who is right handed but shoots left because of copying you rarely misses and he’s six.”

         “Well, then I don’t know.”

         He started to leave but stopped and said, “Maybe you need a target that’s not moving.”

         So he took me deer hunting. We went to a hunting lease that he was part of and because it was so large we hunted from his pickup which was much better than sitting in one spot for hours. The second day he spotted a buck some distance away and told me to get ready. He lined up the scope of his rifle, which we were sharing, on the deer and told me to fire. I had never seen my dad more excited than he was when the deer went down. We hauled the deer back to the camp and before he started the full cleaning process he told me it was tradition for the successful hunter to have some blood rubbed on his face. I gathered from his reaction that my retching was not usually part of the tradition.

         That would turn out to be my last family hunt for many years. I got busier with practices and games and frankly I think my dad and brother finally decided the hunts were more fun without me.

         There was no pressure to shoot until a business associate invited my partner and me to his ranch which was considered an outstanding quail hunting location. In order for hunters to sharpen their skills there was a skeet range which I was urged to visit along with the other hunters. I protested that it had been years since I had fired a shotgun. They told me not to worry, that it would come back to me. I tried to tell them that there was nothing to come back, but after more insisting I gave in and joined my partner and our host on the range. They shot, then loaned me a gun and told me it was my turn.

         It would have been challenging for me to hit one of the clay pigeons if it had been on the ground, but they came out flying in all directions and I missed about ten. They told me to just take a deep breath and relax but when I missed the next ten I could see they were losing patience.

         As they finished shooting and prepared to start the hunt, I told them I thought I would just stay at the house and maybe read or something. My host responded, “well if you’re sure that’s what you want” and my partner added, I thought rather too quickly, “not a bad idea.”

         The years passed and my brother hunted a lot, my dad very little and of course me none. Then one day brother said, “Dad wants to go on a quail hunt I’ve told him about and you should join us.”

         “Why?”

         He said, “Because it’s Christmas and the right thing for you to do. Besides it’s easy hunting – the quail are pen raised and placed in the field so all you have to do is walk through and shoot when they fly.”

         I said, “If you’ll recall, bro, the shooting is the part that gives me trouble.”

         He said, “Dad and I will do most of the shooting – you’ll be along mainly for the companionship.”

         Shoot they did. Quail, which sometimes had to be encouraged to leave the ground, were being shot right and left. Finally my dad and brother noticed I had not been shooting and insisted I walk ahead of them and take a shot. Two birds immediately flew up right in front of me. They began shouting “shoot, shoot, dammit,” but I was having trouble finding the safety on the borrowed shotgun and their screaming wasn’t helpful. By the time I finally found it and got off a shot the birds were out of sight.

         I could see my brother and father shaking their heads, not in anger but in frustration because they had wanted me to have success. The main thing for all of us had been a chance to spend time together, but my father who had a great sense of humor could not let the opportunity pass.

         He said, “Son, you know it occurs to me that since those birds are raised in pens maybe if we gave the people a little extra they would let you shoot a couple before they’re released.”

POSTSCRIPT:

Based on what’s been said so far I can see how I might be considered by bandits as a “soft target,” someone who would not know how to use a gun much less own one. Well that would be a dangerous assumption because of a defensive plan I have been considering. I’m thinking of acquiring an AK47 with a high capacity magazine. The fact that I am a poor shot would then make little difference because I would in effect be firing a machine gun at an intruder. Admittedly, it’s possible that I might demolish a large part of my home if action were required but on the other hand my lunatic reputation would likely keep us safe thereafter.