If you read Marko's blog, you already know about the dog-raccoon pit match he refereed this morning. If you don't, you should go read.
It brought to mind something from last week:
MrsZ and I were at home one evening doing our respective things around the house; I was upstairs reading, she was downstairs working on something. I heard her call for me, and I finished the paragraph I was on. She called again, and I answered her ... she said, "There's something at the front door". Not someone, something.
Being the master of witty repartee that I am, I replied, "Huh?"
"Something is scratching at the front door."
I looked out the side and front upstairs windows and couldn't see anything, so I headed downstairs. I got down the stairs as MrsZ opened the front door - and our stupid cat bolted back into the house from where he'd been sandwiched between the front door and storm door.
The two-second thought process as I headed down the stairs, though, was simple:
It's scratching, probably small something.
.45? Next to bed, overkill.
Shotgun? Locked up, no shells handy.
.22? Downstairs in case, magazine nearby. First round is a short, though - remember to drop it...
So, the .22 was the go-to choice for that particular situation.
After the cat stopped glaring at us, MrsZ asked me, "You were thinking about a gun, weren't you?"
Duh. There is almost always a firearm of SOME type within a couple seconds of me. This time I had the luxury of figuring out which would be most appropriate to the circumstance.
1 month ago