A fifty-caliber muzzleloading pistol is a monstrous gun. It packs a wollop as it’s fired, kicking like an unhappy mule.

Today I headed out with my father-in-law to do a little target practice with various muzzlerloaders. He wanted me to get a feel for them so when deer season rolls around again next year I’ll be ready to kill with a variety of weapons; bow, shotgun, crossbow and muzzleloader. I will wield death with a variety of devices…and low, the deer and rabbits and squirrel and quail and ducks shall fear me.

Except they will be laughing at me so hard they will probably just fall over dead from exhaustion. You see, I apparently can’t wield death effectively enough to kill.

As I took aim at my target–a can in the field–I steadied my breathing, relaxed, focused on the shot and calmly and gently squeeeeezed the trigger…and…BOOM!

The gun erupted in a fountain of anger and smoke and recoil the likes of which I wasn’t expecting. The roar of the gun deafened, the smoke that poured forth from the muzzle blinded me and in the final humiliation I didn’t grip the gun solidly and it kicked up and popped me in the face…

Not hurt, but feeling thoroughly embarrassed I turned around to Ron and said, “I think that can got away…”

He just chuckled and said, “I forgot to tell ya’ to really hold on to that gun. She kicks a little.”

Yes, he was trying not to laugh at me. The can, however, did not try to conceal it’s amusement at the situation…sitting there with it’s smug expression…damn cans…