Annie Oakley, I ain't

Yet.

With a 22 caliber rifle perched against my shoulder, a nuisance fur-bearing rodent in my sights, and adrenaline coursing through my system, I squeezed the trigger. This, after struggling for nearly 10 minutes to dislodge a jammed bullet while Jim held the dog at bay and the animal lumbered around the farmyard.

The first shot traveled more than 150 feet; the animal stumbled. My second shot missed but the third put him on his back and by the fifth, it stopped moving.

Jim and I moved toward each other. He took the gun; I took the dog and headed for the house. He dealt with the remains. I set the safety on the gun and turned my attention toward dinner.

Just another afternoon in the country, I suppose.