The Shooting Range

My boyfriend and I have a lot in common. We both like zombie movies, folk music, the civil war, dogs, good food, new places, riding bikes, camping, hiking, cooking, fishing, swimming, and more and more things. One thing, however, that we did not have in common were guns. My boyfriend is a member of the NRA, and enjoys, from what I understand, going to the shooting range every now and again (especially the ones outside where you can get some fresh air) and seeing if he can challenge himself and his shot. He also keeps it in the rare occasion that he may need to use it for home protection. He has taken many safety courses and takes gun safety very seriously. In essence, he knows how to handle a gun.
I, on the other hand, don't know much about guns except they are lethal, and they are scary. I know their evolution-- mainly the muskets used in the revolutionary and civil war, you know the kind, with the bayonet attachment at the end. But real, modern guns have always been a point of conflict for me. The country in me says they are a necessary evil. When we were out in the sticks (Mt. Aukum), there were a lot of times we, as a family, were exposed to some dangerous animals. Raccoons who tried to drown our dog, mountain lions who ate (not tried, but succeeded) one of our prize goats, mountain lions who attacked our dogs, foxes who would try out for weak points in the chicken fence... I know that if I ever have a farm, as I someday hope, that the harsh reality is a gun, and knowledge of it, will be necessary to protect my livestock. The hippie, gentile side of me, on the other hand, sees guns as an instrument of destruction, a destroyer of lives and worlds, a cold killing machine that allows soldiers and criminals alike to disconnect themselves from the act of taking life. So which, then, is the right thought?
Growing up, I always knew my father had a gun in the house. As a paranoid child (I saw my first horror movie, Predator, in the 3rd grade, followed by Critters a week later, and an ensuing lifelong affair with the genre) I appreciated the feeling of security I had knowing my father had it and knew how to use it. Whether or not I ever truly thought my home was going to get broken in to, whether or not I ever truly thought my dad would have to use the gun, knowing it was there in case of need was a safe feeling. It was, in so many words, like a first aid kit. You hope you're never going to have to use the burn cream, the arm splint, or the oodles of gauze, but there's a very rare, and very real, chance that you might have to, and therefore the first aid kit provides you with a feeling of safety and preparedness.
Carlin thinks it is important (not mandatory, just important) that I know how to shoot a gun. If it should ever come to the point where I need to defend myself, God forbid, and he is not home with me (whether this be in Florida, in Placerville, in Virginia, or on my dream farm), then I need to know how to defend myself. I thought two things about shooting a gun. One was, if I want to be a writer, a real writer, then I have to experience everything (this is, for those who don't know, always my first thought whenever an offer is handed to me). Secondly, I thought, "Is my ignorance of guns more dangerous than knowing how to use a gun?" I decided that yes, in fact, not knowing how to use it, how to use the safety, how to load and unload it, was by far more dangerous than knowing how to do that, and so I decided when Carlin offered to teach me, the answer would be yes.
We called around til we found a range. Carlin has a Beretta of some sort (I don't remember if it's a .9 or a .22, again, I don't know THAT much about guns yet), and so we bought some bullets for that, four targets, and borrowed eye and ear protection. Carlin explained to me the rules of the gun.

1. NEVER POINT IT AT ANYTHING YOU DON'T WANT TO KILL
This is the most important rule of them all. Always point the gun away from people, pets, expensive paintings, you know. Anything you don't want to have a hole in it. In a range, this means you must always point the gun downrange.

2. RED MEANS DEAD.
If the safety is turned so it's showing red, that means it is off.

3. DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGER ON THE TRIGGER UNLESS YOU ARE READY TO FIRE.
Even when aiming, it is important not to leave your finger on the trigger. A finger on the trigger leads to temptatiton to pull, or accidental pulls, so just leave it off til you're ready to shoot.

He also instructed me that if the gun should misfire, I am to lay it down, pointing downrange, and wait for him to fix it.
When we entered into the actual range, things changed. We had in earplugs, AND we had earmuffs on to block out the sound, but it is still one of the most profoundly frightening experiences of my life. Up until this point I had not heard a gun fire (that I can remember), and the sound is so loud that it CAN'T be blocked out. Every time somebody fired, despite it being within a confined area, I jumped. Someone had a large gun, because every time they shot it my teeth rattled. I could feel it start at my gums and shake my teeth all the way down.
Now they say that when soldiers first enter into combat, they have a moment where they are rendered dumb from the gunfire and the carnage. I didn't see the carnage, but I know the gunfire. I felt scare, maybe more scared than I have ever felt, and it wasn't an internal fear, like when I get my blood drawn, but an external one, full of nervousness and absolute fright. I knew, somewhere in me, that these people were permitted gun owners, all shooting down a metal range, backs turned to me, firing at targets down a large, bowling like alley, blocked off by metal walls. Yet, the sound creates an imminent and instinctive fear that caused me to break out sweating, my hands trembling violently, and according to Carlin, turning my skin white and causing me to look pale.
I had told Carlin I wanted to watch him shoot it first, and so he loaded his clip, took aim, and shot out five rounds, each shell discharging out of the top of the gun with a spark and a flurry. This is also horrifying during your first time around a gun. Once the clip was empty, Carlin turned to me and asked, "ready to try?" I said "Um no. I don't want to. You go ahead and shoot." I was shaking and balmy from the sweat. "We can just leave." Carlin said, obviously spooked at how spooked I was, and began to pack up the gun.
Then came Mental Mallory. Mental Mallory is the same Mallory that makes me get my blood drawn, ride roller coasters, get shots, and the wide array of other things I am afraid to do. She chimes in and says, "You're going to feel really disappointed in yourself if you let your fear run you out of this place. Remember," she says, and she loves this quote because she knows it will get me every time, "bravery is not the absence of fear, but the will to overcome it."
"Fine." I say to Mental Mallory, and "Can I watch you one more time?" to Carlin.
Carlin, who is the best boyfriend in the world, obliges and fires off another clip. Then he says to me, "How about if I only put one bullet in the gun, and you just try to fire that one bullet?" I agree, and he sets up the gun for me (I am, by the way, still too afraid it's going to explode to load the gun, so Carlin still does that for me). He teaches me how to hold it properly, tells me how to aim ("line up the castle, the little white dot in the middle of the V, but don't focus on that, just line that up and look at your target, it will all come to focus, you'll get it") and then steps out of the way.
So I'm sweating, and trembling, and having a million worries a minute. Mental Mal is still strong in my head, but a smaller and more powerful voice, who I call Mortifying Mal, is saying the following: "What if the gun backfires? What if the casing hits you somewhere you didn't cover, like your artery? What if the glasses fall off right when it shoots into your eye? What if your finger is in the way? What if the kick breaks your arm?" "I'm not going to fire it." I keep thinking, "How am I even doing this?" When I finally think I've lined up the sights, I sit, frozen, sweating, eyes watering, breathing heavy, as Mortifying Mal shouts "YOU'RE GONNA SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT! YOU'RE GONNA HURT SOMEBODY! YOU'LL HURT YOURSELF!" And then one, solid line from Mental Mal: "Pull the stupid trigger, you coward." Squeeze. Shot. That was it.
I was trembling still, but felt a lot of relief, mostly because nothing happened. I definitely missed the target, but no one fell down dead anywhere on the range, and both my eyes were still intact. I didn't even notice the casing fly out, which I thought would be scary, but I did smell sulfur. A lot of sulfur. I put the gun down hard, turned around with both hands up, and said "Ok I did it." Carlin said, "not bad!" although it was kind of bad. The next thirty minutes he helped me figure out how to stand better so the kick didn't fling the gun upward, always reloading the clip with only one bullet at a time. Finally I got used to the feeling of the gun shooting. The sound, the clip, the smell all became secondary.
Carlin shot some in between, much better than me. Eventually I let him load the clip all the way for me, and I began to work on my aim. Toward the end I was doing very well, but we ran out of bullets, and the sulfur smell was starting to become overwhelming, and so we left.
So what did I take from this? I enjoy shooting. I'd like to go back with Carlin and see if I can challenge myself to improve my aim. I'm proud of myself, for being afraid and fighting through it. But I also understand the power of the arm more than before. As I was shooting, holding it, aiming it, the weight and the heat of it, I kept thinking to myself, "What sort of a person can do this, hold this and aim this, and even think about firing it into a person? An animal? This," I thought again and again, "is one of the biggest responsibilities in the world." I still feel that way. When I look at that gun, when I think about shooting it, I think how safe I have to be with it, how responsible. It's not a toy. A hobby, perhaps, to be shot at a range or, god forbid, in the absolute most dire of emergencies, but NOT a toy, not something simple, not a video game, none of that. It is a tool, it is dangerous, and I understand that. When we are at home I want it hid in our hiding spot, safely tucked away there unless being cleaned (which is Carlin's job), and I really only want to take it out at a place where that is okay, like a range.
So what did I learn? What did I take away? That anything that can take away life should be treated like anything that requires nurturing to live. In other words, if I take in a pet, or if I have a child, I am going to read about it, make sure I am ready for it, make sure I am responsible enough for it, and then make no rash decisions regarding it, make no games about it's use, and in doing so, hope that the outcome is something harmless and fine.

Meet the ratties!

As many of you know, Carlin and I live in a kind of small townhouse, with kind of busy schedules, and not much money. We did, however, both miss pets an incredible amount. After some deliberating, taking into account my prior experience with them, we decided to pick up a pair of rats. Rats are the most intelligent of rodents, smarter even than rabbits. They're low cost; the most expensive part is their litter, which we ration out well, and any medical expensive if (god forbid) something happen to the little buggers. They also provide you with affection that rivals that of a dog, sometimes even rolling over so you can scratch their bellies.
Carlin was hesitant about them at first, going along with the idea, I think, to humor me. We stopped into Petsmart to look at them, and the guy took us into the rodent pen to meet the candidates. The first one out was a little female hooded fancy rat, what they call "faun" colored, or blonde. The attendant handed her to me, and we looked at each other. Her little pink nose was moving a mile a minute, her little ruby eyes curious, a little freaked out. Then, in one swift movement, she was up my arm and on my shoulder, perched safely in my hair, giving my ear little rat kisses that said "I think if I go with you, I'd be pretty happy!"
I loved her the moment I held her. I reached up and grabbed her around her little rat belly, and handed her to Carlin, who very bravely took her. She immediately took to Carlin, dashing up his shoulder, kissing his cheek, and chittering happily. "They're not so bad..." Carlin says, "Let's get them."
"Don't you want to meet the other one?" The attendant asked, and out of the little aquarium that was their home he procured another little girl, also hooded, but with a black hood this time. In a subtle way she looked very differently from girl one. Her eyes were not ruby, but little onyx jewels, and she had a big black spot on her tail. I took her from the attendant (Carlin was preoccupied with our little blonde ratty, who loved then, and loves still, her dad most of all) and she buried her little rat face in the crick of my arm, shyer than her sister, but equally as eager to go home with us. I felt as though she said, "If you take her I'll be all alone here. I know I'm just a plain black rat, but could I come with?"
They were the last two little girls, and they were equally different, but equally lovable. Together, we picked them out a cage, a little water bottle, food dish, little blue igloo, wheel, and Carlin got them a pink-and-green polka-dot rat hammock as a special gift.
Now, today, they live happily in our home as our sweet little pets. Whenever I get home from school or the grocery store, they are hanging on the wires of their cage, little pink feet wrapped around the bars, twitching their pink noses at me excitedly, asking if they can come out, please, and run around free! I get to make them little meals, like little bits of liver and broccoli or scrambled eggs and peanuts. They like to run free for about an hour, then take a nap for about two hours, then run around for another hour. Their cage gets cleaned and sprayed with white vinegar every three days, their hammock gets washed every two weeks. And if you want to meet them, then keep reading!
CALIFORNIA

Likes: People, petties, soybeans and peas, running in the wheel, licking fingers, sleeping in wet hair, when people chitter back to her, when her dad flips her upside down, wrestling with her dad, rubs between the shoulders and behind the ears, her rat hammock, sleeping on the bed, her sister, Virginia.
Dislikes:Her sister Virginia, being locked up in the cage, not being allowed to run on Trevor, blueberries, sleep, linoleum, the outdoors, Call of Duty: Black Ops.
Virginia

Likes:Peanuts, sleeping, burrowing under blankets, chewing, stealing from her sister, stuffed animals, paper towels, curling up at her humans feet underneath a blanket, her rat hammock, sitting on her dads leg and watching him play Call of Duty: Black Ops, scratching down the bridge of her nose, ratty shoulder massages.
Dislikes:Water, being picked up or held, being discovered under a blanket, surprises, clean cages, corn, being told she can't chew on something.
Rats usually freak a lot of people out. But these two are some of my favorite pets I've ever owned. They know their names, they love being social, they're curious about everything, and best of all, they actually LIKE to be around you. They enjoy smelling humans, and especially enjoy sitting around and listening to people talk. Pet stores tend to sell 20-90% of their pet rats to snake breeders (according to Rats: Complete Care Made Easy, by Debbie Durcommun) as food. I'm glad my two girls were not fed to snakes, but instead are sitting (California) on my shoulder and (Virginia) beside me in a pile of stuffed animals. They're my little babies and I'm happy to have 'em!