I'm beginning to wonder about my guns now.

I grew up shooting.  I do believe the first gun I actually shot was a tank, but I may be wrong on that.  I grew up with tank shells in the bedroom-I should probably find that and use it as a lamp stool or something, helicopter parts in the basement, and nobody looking twice at me when my dad took us to the range.  When I dated a "good ol boy" for a good long while, and he brought me "home" to meet his family, I beat him at skeet shot.  He wasn't happy and broke up with me shortly thereafter-although I believe for other reasons.  So I found it quite odd when I quit wanting to shoot after moving here.  I dunno, maybe b/c I don't feel safe at night, especially in the winter without a gun strapped to me, or maybe b/c I've started slaughtering my own food, or maybe the lack of ear protection that one night we had to hunt down that rackin frackin raccoon that was trying to eat our chickens.

All I know is Arlis REALLY wanted to go practice today.  So, we set up a target, aimed for the woods, and succeeded in freaking me out.  Boy came for a visit and had to be held at all times.  Arlis lost some blood in the process.  He then passed the cat on to Marcus who held it down because the stupid thing kept rubbing up against the target.  Cat secured and Marcus well in view, Arlis shot his rifle that has a scope attached to it.  Nobody can shoot that thing but him, but that's fine as he's the blind man.  So then I wanted to practice with my 9mm.  Hmm...that's funny, I think I'm off.  The second shot was conducted AFTER I returned with ear plugs and the ringing subsided.  Ahhh-that was much better!  Wait, I don't think it actually shot.  So, I cocked it again.  Lo and behold, the chamber had two bullets, one of which was caddywumpus to the other.  "Whoa!"

"Put the safety on!"

If one of us is going to lose their hands, it's best it's the one who can't drive to begin with.  I do as commanded and lay it down and BACK AWAY.  He fixes it all up and fires it...I think.  I'm still off.  So, he has me fire his little pistol, which I think is a 22.  It doesn't fire either.  He can't get the bullet in right, takes it out and wonders loudly as to why it's all gummed up.  He places another one only to have it do the same.  Meanwhile, Marcus is practically sitting on Boy to keep him safe.  I announce that I'm going in.  Arlis gets all mad and asks why.

"Well, it could be because of the mosquitoes."

"It could be because I really didn't want to come out here anyway and now all the guns are booby trapped."

"Or it could be because I think I have gas!"

I told him I would stay a little while longer but that I wanted to shoot my pistol, not his.  He said OK.  I started and shot 2-3 feet higher than I should at 20-30 feet away.  That's insane.  Must be weak wrists and the kickback is causing trouble.  Arlis comes up and watches from the side, nope I'm aiming WAY too high.  So, we start to fool around to see how much we should adjust the sights.  It doesn't fire again.  The bullet wasn't messed up, just didn't shoot.

"That's it!  I'm going in!"

I took Boy in, who didn't want to go.  Not once did he jump from the gun shots, and in fact he wanted to go back out to join them.  Stupid cat.  Great mouser, gets moles, eats rabbits, kills birds in the garden, and even knows the difference between a small bantam and a large bird that's uninvited, but STUPID cat.

I'll still carry one with me when I need to.  I'll still use it if I need to.  But this experience has NOT improved my gun relationship at ALL.

Maybe I should start throwing knives...