shooting things

Ginger · 07-07-2012, 08:13 PM

I shot a rabbit when I was 11.

My grandparents lived on a ranch and one afternoon when everyone went out, I stayed home with my grandfather. When I complained to him (perhaps more than once...), that I was bored, he did what had always worked in keeping his boys entertained when they were growing up—gave me a gun and sent me outside. First, of course, he gave me a safety tip: Don't aim toward the house.

I enjoyed having the fields to myself, and felt very important walking around swinging a loaded handgun. Soon I saw a rabbit, and thanks to beginner's luck, I shot him, and carried him back to the house by his hind leg.

I left him on the porch, got a kitchen knife, and went back out to cut his foot off, planning to make a lucky rabbit's foot charm for myself, and take it back to Maryland, where I was about to enter the seventh grade in a new school (my sixth). It took a lot of sawing to get the foot off. Then I wrapped it in tin foil, and buried it deep in my suitcase.

A few days later, when my mother was putting away clean clothes, she smelled the rotting foot, and pulled it out.

Mom: What's this?
Me: A rabbit's foot.
Mom: Where'd you get it?
Me: I shot it.
Mom: Where'd you get the gun?
Me: Granddad.

She stormed off, there was a lot of stage-whispered fighting in another room, and no one ever said another word to me about it.

Years later, after my grandfather died, I brought up the story with my grandmother.

She smiled and shook her head: "He'd let you girls do anything."

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07-07-2012, 08:13 PM	#21
Ginger Senior Member How Do You Identify?: Femme lesbian Join Date: Mar 2012 Location: East coast Posts: 2,416 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 5,829 Thanked 12,295 Times in 2,057 Posts Rep Power: 21474852	I shot a rabbit when I was 11. My grandparents lived on a ranch and one afternoon when everyone went out, I stayed home with my grandfather. When I complained to him (perhaps more than once...), that I was bored, he did what had always worked in keeping his boys entertained when they were growing up—gave me a gun and sent me outside. First, of course, he gave me a safety tip: Don't aim toward the house. I enjoyed having the fields to myself, and felt very important walking around swinging a loaded handgun. Soon I saw a rabbit, and thanks to beginner's luck, I shot him, and carried him back to the house by his hind leg. I left him on the porch, got a kitchen knife, and went back out to cut his foot off, planning to make a lucky rabbit's foot charm for myself, and take it back to Maryland, where I was about to enter the seventh grade in a new school (my sixth). It took a lot of sawing to get the foot off. Then I wrapped it in tin foil, and buried it deep in my suitcase. A few days later, when my mother was putting away clean clothes, she smelled the rotting foot, and pulled it out. Mom: What's this? Me: A rabbit's foot. Mom: Where'd you get it? Me: I shot it. Mom: Where'd you get the gun? Me: Granddad. She stormed off, there was a lot of stage-whispered fighting in another room, and no one ever said another word to me about it. Years later, after my grandfather died, I brought up the story with my grandmother. She smiled and shook her head: "He'd let you girls do anything."