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Opting out

The thing about shooting is that I think it's perfectly wonderful UNTIL the earplugs go in. FarmWife, who knows all too well (for non-shooting-related reasons) the challenges of living with hearing loss, think's it's only wonderful AFTER the earplugs go in. I would much rather listen to the earth-shattering tumult of a .357 firing next to my head than feel the oogy-boogy yuckiness of an object in each auricle, but FarmWife says "No way are you doing without, mister." It used to be that she'd make me wear them each time we hit the range, which was a terrible bore even with the temptation of a rewarding apple slice. Now, my hock gives me a convenient opportunity to opt out of this particular extracurricular activity.

FarmWife and I still get a chuckle out of this "are you shooting your mule?" story:

She once had me tied at a safe distance from her firing line (twenty feet back, where she could see me out of the corner of her eye but where I was nowhere near the hot zone) and practiced shooting paper targets until some motorcyclists approached. She holstered her weapon and removed her earplugs. They cut their engines and removed their helmets.

"My mule's tied up back there," she shouted, gesturing toward the trees.  She wanted them to know so as not to startle me or mow me down, you know.

"Are you going to shoot him?!?" they asked with a tone of alarm.

FarmWife assured them that she was merely shooting targets, and that I was merely her pet and her transportation into the wilderness. I was not to be her victim.  They were incredibly relieved, as they were certain she had brought me to the woods to end my suffering. I'm not sure why—maybe I was having a frumpy day?

I hope I go in my sleep . . . fifty or sixty years from now. FarmWife, being a vegetarianish person of soft heart, only kills soda cans and scrap paper.

Ears,
FenBar

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