The other White Meat...
Those of you who know me well understand that I'm a serious shooter. If for no other reason, that description applies to the safety factor I build into every session when investing my time alongside a weapon. Whether it's busting clays, peppering dove, bagging a buck, punching paper targets, or sniping varmints from ungodly distances- safety ALWAYS comes first. Period.
Occasionally, I catch word of a buddy who isn't so cautious. When it becomes apparant that there is no injury or death by said person- or enacted upon a third party- I will certainly follow up with the normal questions starting with, "What happened?".
Such was the case last week, when I met a new friend who works for a well-known construction firm here in town. After the initial greetings, I realized another long-time friend worked in the same building as my 'new' friend. Of course, I asked about my old friend. 'New' friend chuckles and says, "You need to ask him how much an Armadillo is worth!"
Not one to pass up a good story- I implored my 'new' friend to spill his guts. Turns out, my old friend (who is not yet 30, and a relative new comer to the fine sport of hunting) decided to dispatch a pesky armadillo on his last hunting foray. He was so intent on bagging this critter he didn't even exit his pickup truck to do so properly. Not carrying a sidearm with him- or perhaps feeling more bravado than one should- he decides to take aim with his high powered center-fire deer rifle topped off with an equally high-powered variable scope. (You see where this is heading, don't you? Now, don't get ahead of me...)
My less-than-30-year-'old' friend is intent on dispatching that pesky armadillo. He's got to have something to show his new bride for the evening's activities spent in her absence. He is also under the illusion that he can safely do so while sitting in his heated truck cab. He rolls the window down on the far side of the truck. He brings the gun to his shoulder. Puts his right eyeball snug to the scope. Centers the crosshair on the critter and squeezes the trigger ever so gently...BLAM-O!!! He blows a neat hole right through the top edge of his passenger-side door where one's elbow would normally rest. Not to mention he nearly wet his pants from the percussion inside the close quarters of the truck's cab. As the smoke gently and effortlessly curls upward from the new vent hole in his truck door- my friend realizes what he did wrong. The scope is mounted 2 inches above the bore of his rifle. The muzzle of the gun was pointed at the door- while the centered "X" of the scope was above the door frame. Problem is- when your aiming point is 20 feet from the muzzle of your gun- the scope will always be higher than the path of the bullet once launched from the breach. Too late- the damage is done.
Well, I'm a nice friend- and I refuse to exploit my friend's identity here in these pages. But you can bet I'm going to have a wonderful story to relay to his parents in Belton later this week when I see them during Thanksgiving.
(Wonder how Randy and LaGay are going to take the news, JP?)