Sunday, February 8, 2009

Hunting With The Fudds

“Bang! Bang!”

The gunshots inside the car were deafening.

My brother (driving) and I (in back seat) looked stunned as the smoke swirled around our heads, ears ringing.

What had Dad, the intrepid leader of our hunting party (in passenger seat) just done – lost his mind and started shooting mosquitos in the car? Assassinate a marauding badger or grizzly bear that had snuck into the vehicle?

Actually no – he was checking the operation of a weapon’s safety by blasting two nicely grouped holes in the floor between his feet.

We were out ‘hunting’, if driving down back roads, blasting at anything that moved, can properly be called hunting.

All we usually did was head out on old logging roads, and upon sighting a Fluffed Grouse or rabbit or cow or whatever, we would quickly but quietly exit the vehicle (we were stalking our prey you see). Then, bringing our many weapons to bear on the general region of the target, we would commence firing.

With lead spraying the countryside we would keep up our barrage until something fell dead from a tree or bush, be it bird, rabbit, moose, or low flying aircraft. I’m sure if we had access to hand grenades we would have put them to good use too. And probably missed with them as well.

I suspect whenever we did in fact kill something it was because the bird had collapsed from laughing at our efforts. Or had choked on all the dirt we had kicked up around it with our ammunition

Anyway, on this particular expedition, Dad had brought along one of his war relics – a German Army pistol called a Lugie or Lugger or something. You know, the pistol used by evil Gestapo agents in old war movies. “Hands up! You cannot escape Major, now drop zat blonde and come viss me!” One of those jobs.

Dad had picked it up while saving the world from the evils of National Socialism by serving in the battle-hardened Royal Canadian Army Dental Corps. Yes, while the crack divisions of the Canadian Army were battling their way through France and Germany, my father was passing gas in a mobile dental surgery truck many miles to their rear. War is hell.

Perhaps because of his traumatizing wartime experiences (mainly hangovers I suspect), Dad could never remember if the safety was on or off when the little lever thing was in the up position.

Not having handled the device in many years, instead of removing all the bullets to see if the safety worked (the Non-Crawford Reasoning Method), Dad cleverly just aimed the thing at the floor of the car and started blasting.

It took two (yes, two) rapid shots into the passenger foot well to determine the safety was not, in fact, working.

Luckily no vital bits of automobile or human were damaged. For a change, one of us had actually hit what he was aiming at, namely, the floor.

Our hunting trip was ended for the day, having bagged our limit of round, drafty conversation pieces in the passenger compartment. And some unfortunate stains in the upholstery.

Shortly after this episode, in order to provide food for my family, I switched to hunting for bargains at Safeway.

For ammunition, I use a spring loaded clip of money. For safety’s sake, I usually keep the clip empty.

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