Never too late to go back to basics

People who’ve shot with me in the past several years could be forgiven for thinking I’m a liar, but I used to be a pretty good shot with either rifle or handgun. I competed, locally but very regularly, in combat (now I guess it’s called Practical) pistol and hunter pistol silhouette, where you’re trying to knock down rams at 100 yards and those damn skinny little turkeys at 75. I competed in high power rifle with AR and M14. I wasn’t a great shot, I wasn’t a national-level contender or anything, but I could shoot.

Not so much anymore. Several years ago I finally trained myself to shoot pistols weak-eye, but that’s a pretty easy transition. I don’t know why I was in such a state of denial about how I just couldn’t use a set of rifle sights anymore. Not with my right eye. And at the risk of outing myself as not a tactical operator, I never took the time to learn how to shoot a rifle left-handed. It was awkward and embarrassing; it felt really unnatural. I shot like a girl. And not a Tam-style girl.

Late last year I finally got the money together for a new pair of glasses, which I’d needed badly for years. And that’s when I found out about the really advanced case of glaucoma. Went to an ophthalmologist for a second opinion, and he said, “Yes, and you’ve got cataracts, too.” Fact is, by that point my right eye had gotten so bad I can’t really see much of anything out of it.

Fortunately I can do something about the cataracts, and sooner or later I will. But in the meantime I had to do something about the rifle. Unfortunately right about then we went into the second Obama-era ammo panic, and even .22lr is too expensive for a penniless desert rat to practice with. And learning to shoot southpaw after all these years takes a lot of repetitions.

But an obvious solution presented itself. Remember a month or two ago when I was bitching about how herds of open-range cattle were complicating my dogs’ lives? Well, Ian remembered it too. And the last time I saw him, about a month ago, he dropped by the Lair to lend me his old Russian air rifle and about half a can of pellets.

Nothing special or fancy, just a beat-up old .177 pellet gun. The idea was that, while I can’t shoot the damned mountains of meat with a real gun and they’re not impressed with the noise even if I shoot around them, a few pellets in the ass might get them moving in the right direction – i.e., away.

I dunno if it will or not, because the cattle crisis ended right about then. But the air rifle stood beside the door for a couple of weeks. And then one afternoon when nothing else was going on I got to staring at it.

After all, why not? .22 might be pricey and scarce, but pellets are still plentiful and cheap. And it’s not like practicing with one takes a lot of prep; I don’t even have to worry about the dogs. Hell, I don’t have to leave the porch.

So I shot up that half a can, then went out and bought a thousand more pellets and I’m working my way steadily through them. I’m not worried about precision, not at all. As often as not I just stand in the open door and pot away at an old ammo can across the yard. The idea is just to get to feeling natural shooting a rifle southpaw. It’s late to teach this old dog a new trick, but it’s coming. Maybe by the end of that next 500 pellets.