I was digging a post hole yesterday; not an overly exciting sort of thing to do. A man drove into the parking area and parked nearby; also not something to raise the pulse of the average citizen. He got out of the car and strapped on his gun belt and gun (a Colt .45, one of the few handguns I recognize); still not exciting since this is an open-carry state, but I did slow my actions a bit so as to keep an eye on him.
He reached back in the car and picked up two small yipping dogs. I don’t know what kind. My ignorance became totally unimportant as one of the dogs did the yippiing and squirming thing enough to escape. Said escape involved leaping from the man’s arms, tangling the leash around the gun and jerking the gun from the holster… freeze frame time… dawg (no longer a nondescript dog) and gun did the (why don’t things go to slow mo in real life?) unsynchronized fall to the ground routine.
Dawg and gun hit the ground at the same time. Flinch–short intake of breath, continued freeze frame. A short statement describing the dawg’s ancestry was proclaimed loudly by the dawg’s (and gun’s) owner. He kicked the dawg a short distance and reclaimed his gun; retrieved a rag from the car and wiped the gun down. He ejected the magazine (gawd, I hope that is the correct word) and… wow… jacked the round out of the chamber (what good is a gun that isn’t ready to shoot?); blew the dust, dirt, and spiders out of the barrel, slipped the magazine back in… chambered a round (I’ll pretend I could tell he slipped the safety on), and put the gun back in its (safe and secure) holster.
I am still trying to think of how to describe the grin he gave me when he noticed I had watched the entire episode of a moment-in-the-day-of-a-responsible-gun-owner; a somewhat exciting sort of thing to do.
———-Run Gently Out There———