C
Chad Adams
Guest
By Andrew Wilson
As a Dad of three kids, an old ploy of mine is to take Stella, my daughter’s candy-ass-looking Aussie dog, for a walk. Equipping myself with a pistol, these walks are a guilt-free way to get out of a noisy house and do a little casual hunting.
On my afternoon jaunts, I carry a Buckmark .22; it’s a great pistol for rabbit, and some kind of protection against coyotes, because it’s happened more than once I’ve spotted a lurking coyote stalking Stella’s fat ass.
I called my brother Matt with an earbud so I could keep my hands free.
“Hey, what’s going on?” my brother answered the phone.
“I’m walking the dog, you know that popular trail by the house? The one that crosses that dirt road, all the hikers park at,” I told him where I was.
We talk while I hike, and Stella lags behind me, opposite of what a hunting dog should be doing.
Mid-conversation, I spot a coyote trotting through the pines, silhouetted by the setting sun.
“Oh shit, Matt, there’s a coyote!” Loud-whispering to my brother as I pulled my pistol. Stella was oblivious as to why I was hustling up the embankment from the trail.
“What’s happening?” Matt asked.
“He’s pretty far; I’m gonna take a pop shot,” I whispered in response. Leveling my pistol, I take an impossible 70-yard shot. An act of bravado; I wanted my brother to hear the blast over the phone. The coyote jumped and sprinted. Stella started running in circles for no apparent reason other than that something exciting happened.
“He’s running now! There’s no way I hit him with this ol’ pistol at that range,” I tell my brother.
“Did Stella see him?”
“Hell no, oh wait, he’s limping! I think I hit him!” I exclaimed in disbelief. A handgun! A moving target! Impossible. The coyote ran a wide circle through the trees.
Sure enough, the coyote was limping, and I gave chase, hoping he’d flop over. Calling Stella to follow me, I didn’t want her to engage with a wounded song dog. I needn’t have worried.
Increasing the gap between us, the coyote crossed a snow patch. Sprinting over, I could see small red blotches on the ice, confirming the wound. It was obvious now, I had shot him in the ass, and a pang of regret went through my chest as the coyote disappeared into the dense foliage. He was hurt but not enough for me to catch up, and with the sun going down, the chances of recovery were gone.
“Are you going to get him?” Matt asked, his voice in my head like my conscience.
“There’s no way, it’s too dark,” I responded, put Stella on the leash, and turned around to head home. Nearing the crossroads I passed earlier, I noticed a cop cruiser parked behind the other cars. A little strange, but since it was getting dark and I was in a hurry, I continued without giving it much thought.
“I can’t believe I drew blood on the coyote! That was the greatest shot I’ve ever taken with a pistol. Damn, it’s too bad I wounded him,” I said to Matt.
“Go track him down!”
“There’s no way, the blood drops were too small after the snow, I’ll look in the morning—oh shit,” As I was speaking, a cop emerged from behind his SUV. Slinging an AR-15 over his head and then loudly cocking and holding the weapon at a ready position.
“What happened?” my brother asked through my earbud.
Now, 50 feet away from the cop, in the semi-darkness, partly concealed by sage bush, Stella with her goofy ass behind me, and I, trying to look casual, strolling by. Urgent realizations swept through my brain.
Firstly, I had shot my pistol off near a popular trail, which was technically legal since it’s a national forest and I was hunting, but not ideal considering how many tourist hikers were around. Secondly, this cop was obviously not from around here and didn’t know shit about the area or hunting. And thirdly, this cop was obviously strung out on nicotine and caffeine and ready for action.
All this, and I had a pistol hanging off me in a low-light situation.
“What’s happening?” my brother repeated, unable to see anything over the phone.
“SIR!” the cop yelled over for my attention.
Dramatic Images raced through my mind. Images of being shot. An image of a news headline: Hero Deputy Eliniates Crazed Shooter on Popular Hiking Trail. Like, how was I going to explain myself? How fast would this cop have me lying face down in the dirt with his knee on my head? Stella would surely die, maybe not; she’s so dumb she’ll probably stand there blankly watching as I bleed out and the cop reports over the radio: Shots fired, yeah, I got ’em, no need for back up, this wacko is cooked.
“Are you still there?” my brother asked.
“SIR!” the cop repeated, and I froze. “I NEED YOU TO LEAVE THE AREA. SOMEONE IS SHOOTING A GUN, AND YOU NEED TO TAKE YOUR DOG AND LEAVE IMMEDIATELY!” the cop commanded.
Evidently, I did not meet the criteria of a crazed, gun-toting maniac picking hikers off from a concealed position in the woods. Stella was to blame; I had been profiled and deemed harmless, and it was her fault. After all, why would a no-good, dangerous pistolero be walking with such a silly dog?
“Of course, officer! Right away!” If he only knew, I thought as I jogged off before he got wise.
“What?” my brother said.
The post Saved By a Candy Ass Dog appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
As a Dad of three kids, an old ploy of mine is to take Stella, my daughter’s candy-ass-looking Aussie dog, for a walk. Equipping myself with a pistol, these walks are a guilt-free way to get out of a noisy house and do a little casual hunting.
On my afternoon jaunts, I carry a Buckmark .22; it’s a great pistol for rabbit, and some kind of protection against coyotes, because it’s happened more than once I’ve spotted a lurking coyote stalking Stella’s fat ass.
I called my brother Matt with an earbud so I could keep my hands free.
“Hey, what’s going on?” my brother answered the phone.
“I’m walking the dog, you know that popular trail by the house? The one that crosses that dirt road, all the hikers park at,” I told him where I was.
We talk while I hike, and Stella lags behind me, opposite of what a hunting dog should be doing.
Mid-conversation, I spot a coyote trotting through the pines, silhouetted by the setting sun.
“Oh shit, Matt, there’s a coyote!” Loud-whispering to my brother as I pulled my pistol. Stella was oblivious as to why I was hustling up the embankment from the trail.
Taking a Little Poke
“What’s happening?” Matt asked.
“He’s pretty far; I’m gonna take a pop shot,” I whispered in response. Leveling my pistol, I take an impossible 70-yard shot. An act of bravado; I wanted my brother to hear the blast over the phone. The coyote jumped and sprinted. Stella started running in circles for no apparent reason other than that something exciting happened.
“He’s running now! There’s no way I hit him with this ol’ pistol at that range,” I tell my brother.
“Did Stella see him?”
“Hell no, oh wait, he’s limping! I think I hit him!” I exclaimed in disbelief. A handgun! A moving target! Impossible. The coyote ran a wide circle through the trees.
Sure enough, the coyote was limping, and I gave chase, hoping he’d flop over. Calling Stella to follow me, I didn’t want her to engage with a wounded song dog. I needn’t have worried.
Increasing the gap between us, the coyote crossed a snow patch. Sprinting over, I could see small red blotches on the ice, confirming the wound. It was obvious now, I had shot him in the ass, and a pang of regret went through my chest as the coyote disappeared into the dense foliage. He was hurt but not enough for me to catch up, and with the sun going down, the chances of recovery were gone.
“Are you going to get him?” Matt asked, his voice in my head like my conscience.
“There’s no way, it’s too dark,” I responded, put Stella on the leash, and turned around to head home. Nearing the crossroads I passed earlier, I noticed a cop cruiser parked behind the other cars. A little strange, but since it was getting dark and I was in a hurry, I continued without giving it much thought.
“I can’t believe I drew blood on the coyote! That was the greatest shot I’ve ever taken with a pistol. Damn, it’s too bad I wounded him,” I said to Matt.
“Go track him down!”
“There’s no way, the blood drops were too small after the snow, I’ll look in the morning—oh shit,” As I was speaking, a cop emerged from behind his SUV. Slinging an AR-15 over his head and then loudly cocking and holding the weapon at a ready position.
Stella to the Rescue
“What happened?” my brother asked through my earbud.
Now, 50 feet away from the cop, in the semi-darkness, partly concealed by sage bush, Stella with her goofy ass behind me, and I, trying to look casual, strolling by. Urgent realizations swept through my brain.
Firstly, I had shot my pistol off near a popular trail, which was technically legal since it’s a national forest and I was hunting, but not ideal considering how many tourist hikers were around. Secondly, this cop was obviously not from around here and didn’t know shit about the area or hunting. And thirdly, this cop was obviously strung out on nicotine and caffeine and ready for action.
All this, and I had a pistol hanging off me in a low-light situation.
“What’s happening?” my brother repeated, unable to see anything over the phone.
“SIR!” the cop yelled over for my attention.
Dramatic Images raced through my mind. Images of being shot. An image of a news headline: Hero Deputy Eliniates Crazed Shooter on Popular Hiking Trail. Like, how was I going to explain myself? How fast would this cop have me lying face down in the dirt with his knee on my head? Stella would surely die, maybe not; she’s so dumb she’ll probably stand there blankly watching as I bleed out and the cop reports over the radio: Shots fired, yeah, I got ’em, no need for back up, this wacko is cooked.
“Are you still there?” my brother asked.
“SIR!” the cop repeated, and I froze. “I NEED YOU TO LEAVE THE AREA. SOMEONE IS SHOOTING A GUN, AND YOU NEED TO TAKE YOUR DOG AND LEAVE IMMEDIATELY!” the cop commanded.
Evidently, I did not meet the criteria of a crazed, gun-toting maniac picking hikers off from a concealed position in the woods. Stella was to blame; I had been profiled and deemed harmless, and it was her fault. After all, why would a no-good, dangerous pistolero be walking with such a silly dog?
“Of course, officer! Right away!” If he only knew, I thought as I jogged off before he got wise.
“What?” my brother said.
The post Saved By a Candy Ass Dog appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...