I was fourteen when my father decided
to take me with himm. I had passed my test,
got my license the year before, but had never
shown interest in shooting Bambi or any
furry forest friends. "It'll be good
for you," he explained, appealing to my logical
nature. "Practicing on moving targets will
only make you a better shot in competition."
Finding no flaw in this logic, I reluctantly agreed.
Next morning found us, crunching
through leaves in the back woods behind
our property at quarter-past-ridiculous a.m.:
We took up perch on felled tree and waited
for four-legged furriers to appear. I was already
tired, bored, rapidly losing interest. I found
solace in peeling bark from our sentry seat, crumbling
fallen leaves, dusty bits to feed to the wind.
By the tiime I discovered the patch of mushrooms
that puffed when I squeezed them, my father had lost
patience. "I believe you are a good enought shot,"
he said, pushing me back in the direction
of the house. "I think I am the one who needs practice.