It ain't no thang

FarmWife took me on my first shooting adventure yesterday.

Revolver? Check.
Ammunition? Check.
Cross draw holster? Check.
His and hers earplugs? Check.
Packable rope halter? Check.
Cotton lead rope? Check.
First aid kit? Check.

Here was the thing FarmWife planned to do: she planned to ride me to a safe target shooting range in yonder hills. She planned to dismount, tie me safely by my rope halter and cotton lead rope (guaranteed to break before my neck does!), stuff all four of our ears with sound-dampening matter, walk twenty paces off, then load and discharge her .357. She then planned to turn about and examine me for signs of panicking, freaking out, maiming myself, jeopardizing life and limb, etcetera.

Here was the thing that actually happened: FarmWife rode me to a safe target shooting range in yonder hills. She dismounted, tied me safely to a VERY sappy tree (I'm covered in pine-scented goo!), stuffed all four of our ears with obnoxious fluff, walked twenty paces off, then loaded and discharged her .357. She turned to find me saying, "ho, hum." I could not have been cooler had I been a cucumber in the shade.

FarmWife, do not forget: I was once an elk huntin' mule. There is nothing scary about watching you plink with your little revolver. In fact, the only difference between this business and that is that I don't have to carry a corpse home at the end of THESE adventures. Oh, and there's the business of the earplugs. I don't believe I wore those before. They tickle, and I would have remembered them.

Fen