heh. I was rereading this thread, and I was suddenly reminded of another story of 'overkill' from my not-so-distant youth. this was from about the same period as my rat hunting escapades, and features the same weapon, my trusty 870 Wingmaster.
My mom had a garden. She loved it dearly and grew extremely upset when a rabbit dared to trespass on holy ground and eat some of various vegetables growing in her garden. She tried many different techniques to keep the rabit out, from fencing to live traps to repellant to hair clippings scattered around the perimeter (I still have no clue if that is an old wives tale or a legit way to keep rabbits out, it didn't work if it is real), all to no avail. The darned rabbit kept coming back, my mom kept seeing it (and therefore KNEW it was the same rabbit, or so she said), and she kept losing plants.
I told my mother multiple times that I could solve this little problem for her. You see, the backyard was a perfect place to shoot; a large backstop, no chance of anyone blundering into the field of fire, the neighbors' houses were close on the front, but our property fanned out the further back you went. She refused each time- she knew what I meant and she did not want Thumper hurt.
Finally the word came down from on high- my mother now wanted the rabbit gone, by whatever means necessary. She didn't want to know HOW it was done...just do it.
Naturally, I set about this task with zeal. I was 18 years old, it was summertime, my mom wanted me to blow away a poor defenseless mammal in the back yard...heck. This was better than TV.
A week goes by of me playing super-secret ninja sniper in the backyard with my .22 rifle. nothing. No rabbit. Nothing. Meanwhile, the death-toll of plants is rising, mom is getting more bent out of shape and good ole Mike has nothing to shoot.
Finally, one fine and foggy Saturday morning at about 5:30 AM I come home from my Friday night out (did I mention that my mom is pretty cool? She knew I was a good kid and gave me pretty free rein)...I go to my room, change into my sleepwear, grab my bathrobe and head for the bathroom. As I wander by the window overlooking the garden, there it sits.
The rabbit from hell. The thing was huge.
I start, dumbfounded. I run downstairs, grab the .22 rifle...and realize I shot my last box of 50 the night prior at my friend's house, plinking bottles. Crap. What do I have...the shotgun. Okay. What shotshells do I have? 00 Buck. Huuuuh. Well...it'll do.
Now...I know from prior experience that the back door creaks, so I have to go out the front. So out the front door I go, hair all mussed up, in my bright red bathrobe, big fuzzy gray slippers, and a Remington shotgun over my shoulder.
Naturally, my soccer-mom neighbor is out walking her poodle and sipping her herbal tea. I think she about had a stroke as I waved good morning, walked around the corner, drew a bead on Thumper and let fly with a round of buckshot. I then ambled back around front, shotgun smoking, put the gun in the garage and wandered around back again, this time with a shovel- there wasn't much left of the rabbit, you see.
Yes, I know. No shooting in a safety zone. Especially, no OBVIOUS shooting in a safety zone. Like I said, I was young and semi-stupid.
But my mom's garden was pretty much unmolested after that...and my annoying neighbor STILL won't talk to me. Its a win-win.
Mike
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"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects." -Robert Heinlein
