3/20 - Mule Shot
Monday, March 20, 2006
My dad was a hunter. Not just any hunter, but a BIG game hunter.
Not the elephant or whale big hunter, (although Moose and Elk were
among his prey) but hunting was a huge part of his life. It was
second only to raising and training his Brittany spaniel bird
dogs. (That’s how we got buddy, our 14 month old dog.) A few days
after he died at my house on Christmas, we made the trek up to his
found a real mess. Among his mess, we found guns, lots of guns;
shotguns, rifles, and pistols. Some of them were old, some not so
old. Some of them are extremely valuable, some not worth a tank of
gas. And, since I’m the only sibling in Utah and pretty much the
only one with an interest in guns, I voted myself dad’s armory.
With his weapons stock, he had ammunition. Oh boy, did he have
ammunition. He had shells and cartridges in every conceivable
place you could think of. After days of cleaning, we had more than
a 100 boxes of shotgun shells (25/box) and a lot of rifle
Then I came to the stark realization that 4 boys, a few dozen
guns, and 2500 rounds of ammunition might be cause for a wee bit
of concern. Although I had enough trigger locks for the guns I
already owned, putting them all of the guns just wasn’t a long
term solution. So my sweet wife and I put the guns in our bedroom
and locked the door morning noon and night. Then, with everything
else going on in my life, I went shopping for a gun safe. I had to
be a good sized one so all of the guns and ammo would fit. A few
weeks ago I found a very nice used one at a gun shop. It took 6
men to pull it off, but it’s now in my basement. It’s a tight
squeeze, but it fits all of the guns and ammo. Now I can sleep
So, a few Saturdays ago I grabbed son #3, the pee wee .22 rifle
for him, and some shot guns for me, and we headed off to the
range. We had another great Saturday. That is until I pulled out
the 12 gauge shotgun. I must confess; I didn’t know there was such
a difference in 12 gauge shot gun shells until that morning. I put
in 2 heavy 4 shot goose (or was that moose) shells and shot at a
clay pigeon. I dusted the pigeon; and my shoulder with it. It was
like a mule kick. “OUCH!” I yelled. Son #3 giggled. “No, really;
that hurt a LOT!” I thought maybe I held the gun wrong, or did
something wrong. So I moved it over and held a little tighter this
time. “PULL!” I said. I completely missed the clay pigeon, and got
slammed hard with another mule kick. The next morning as I was
getting ready for church and showed my sweet wife the 2 large
bruises on my shoulder. Needless to say, I put it away and didn’t
shoot the 12 gauge again.
But, last Saturday I thought, ‘after falling off the horse’ I’d
better get back on. So Friday night I got everything ready. Pee
wee rifle for the little ones, .410 and 20 gauge for the boys, and
the 12 gauge for me. I got the clay pigeon thrower ready, the
pigeons, the ammo, the rifle targets, everything. When we arrived
at the range and started setting up, I realized I forgot one
important thing; the spring to the clay pigeon thrower. You can’t
throw pigeons very well without that spring. But, since we were 45
minutes away from home, we tried. We threw an entire box of
pigeons by hand. (no little plastic thrower either. We threw them
just like a baseball.) We had another great Saturday, but now my
arm is sore for throwing all of those stupid clay pigeons.
And yes, this time I brought 12 gauge 8 shot for dove, quail, and
squirrel. I didn’t kick at all. Son #2 said it was his favorite
gun for the day.
For those of you who get this as email...
Enjoy today’s Jokes!
Reader Comment Section:
Dear Marty, I have made many omelets in a bag. They are great!
They cook perfectly without burning, there is no dirty skillet or
mixing bowl, and I use paper plates when we have a large group, so
there is very little clean up. Some variations we use are:
chopped onions, chopped green bell peppers, chopped chili peppers,
chopped pre-cooked sausage, chopped ham, shredded cheese, and
tater tots. Salsa and ketchup are reserved for toppings.
~Lester M. ò¿ó