It was the 1930s, and my grandfather’s two older brothers had taken their father on a pheasant hunt. Pheasants were still new to Minnesota at the time, and their father had yet to try to hunt them.
They didn’t have to walk far before they rousted a rooster. The old man lifted his double-barrel side by side, pulled back the hammers, fired, and dropped the rooster before it was more than a few feet off the ground.
“Boy, there’s not much challenge to shooting these,” he was said to have told his sons.
The boys would get the last laugh, however; for the rest of the hunt, the old man missed every bird he tried to shoot.
