Life presents us with a series of options, or choices. For example, your knees buckle, you lose your shoe and you can come clean and say you’re a sick old elitist drunk, or you can lie. Your choice. Again, you can sit at home whining like a sad old deplorable, or you can get out in the field. I chose the latter option and went out in search of dove.
We set up on the tailgate, in partial shade, and waited for the birds to come swooping down on the Mojo and associated decoys. A few came in, shots were fired and a couple of birds went down, though more got away.
“Once again,” said GWB sagely, “this has been about learning. I’ve learned that I have to go to the skeet range.” I agreed, “And I’ve discovered that if you actually aim at a bird you have a better chance of shooting it.” Dove hunting wisdom.
Then, as dusk was falling, two of the feathered rockets dived down on the Mojo with a kind of persistent fury, attacking it with beak and claw in the light of the setting sun. It was like The Birds but more frightening, because it was real. I lined up a shot on the avian predators and… nothing! No round in the chamber, good work, LSP, and by the time my beat up pump had pumped they were gone.
Don’t worry, birds, there’ll be a return match.
Shoot the gun,