When I was about 17, these two young pups, well, they weren't that young, they were half grown dogs, came wandering across our rural property one day. They were hanging around and I was afraid they would kill our chickens, so since I never had seen them before, I got my over and under single shot .22 caliber rifle /.410 shotgun.
I put a shell in the .22 chamber, aimed inches from one of the dog’s heads, and pulled the trigger.
The dog let out a pitiful howl and took off, much to my surprise. I thought he’d drop over dead. I had learned of a hillbilly named Sammy Arnold years earlier who went deer hunting with just a .22. I was shocked my .22 didn’t even drop a little dog.
About 20 minutes later, a pickup came roaring down our dead end gravel road. I panicked as I saw an angry hillbilly getting out. I hid my gun and answered the door when the angry hillbilly knocked.
“Do you own a .22?” the man demanded.
“No sir,” I said, thinking to myself, “I own a 22/410 over and under, but not a .22.”
“Well, my little dog came home just a little while ago with a bullet in his eye,” the man said, trying to hide his rage and sorrow. “He still had his collar on and everything!”
He shook his head in dismay. “That’s where the shit hits the fan,” he said. “When I find out whoever done it, it’s over.”
I feebly wished him well on his search for the low down dog shooter and quietly hid my gun out of sight. Maybe this gun thing wasn’t so quick and effective after all.
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