Dreams of pheasant were likely on his mind while he worked on cooking our traditional end-of-the-trip brunch. Dreams that soon turned to reality, as my brother-in-law looked up from his chef duties and out the window to see a drake pheasant perched on the nearby sand dune.
He raced around the cabin’s rooms to find his shotgun, unsheathed it from its case, loaded two shells, and then eased out the back door to see that the pheasant hadn’t moved.
“Why isn’t it flying?” he muttered as he squeezed the trigger.
“Click!” responded the trigger, when the firing pin hit air.
“Click!” it responded again when the second firing pin did the same.
At that juncture my brother-in-law knew that there were two problems: One, something was definitely wrong with that pheasant, which still hadn’t moved; and, two, something was definitely wrong with his shotgun.
As for number one, the pheasant was of the stuffed taxidermy variety (by no means advocating going out and buying pre-made taxidermy), a partially dog-eaten one placed there as a joke by one of my brother-in-law’s friends.
As for number two, during a wonderful brunch of sea trout and eggs we determined that the ghost of my father must have intervened to enhance the joke, as the shotgun worked fine when tested after the two misfires.
Another good trip and fond memories of the family out in North Carolina country.