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My son and I were visiting with my father in St. Louis a couple years ago. We were hanging out on the back porch, drinking delicious and refreshing beverages, when my Dad froze. He was looking at a chipmunk that was beginning to burrow under the concrete around his pool.
He had just replaced an old swimming pool, partially because of burrowing chipmunks.
He asked me if I remembered where the pellet gun was. Duh.
My son asked me if he could shoot the chipmunk. Dad was in the Rangers and I'm not a half-bad shot either -- either of us could have dropped that little bastard -- but my son lives with an anti-weapons Mom. It was news to me he knew one end from the other.
"Morgan, who taught you how to shoot?"
"Daddy, really. I live in Montana. Everybody there has guns and kills stuff. Grandma taught me how!"
He wasn't kidding. HE shot that critter good and dead with one pellet, and then he disposed of it, too -- at nine years old!
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