Part II...

Ok, I'm back for another try at the prize!  
As I mentioned before, I grew up with a channel to a local bay in my backyard.  Well, one afternoon when I was about 16, I noticed several ducks swimming single file up the channel.  The range from my upstairs bedroom window to the water was pretty long for a pneumatic air rifle -- probably about 60 yards or so.  However, long practice had taught me the proper amount of holdover.  No, I wasn't trying to hit the ducks -- rather, I decided to shoot about 2 feet in front of the lead duck and make a splash with the pellet, and see what he'd do.  I pumped up the Daisy 880, held high and in front of the duck, and let 'er rip.  Splish!

The duck didn't act startled or anything, he just reversed course, and started swimming back the way he came, as did all of them!  Hey, cool! The line of ducks turning in unison and swimming back up the channel looked kind of like the old shooting galleries you see in the movies!!  I reloaded, aimed a couple of feet in front of the new lead duck, fired, and Splish!  He calmly reversed directions again!! Alright!! Remote control ducks, via air rifle!!  

I did this several times without realizing that my stepmother was downstairs watching the ducks out the back window...  Once she figured out the cause for their wierd behavior and saw the splashes, she yelled at me to "stop shooting at the ducks!"  I indignantly explained that I wasn't shooting AT them, I was shooting IN FRONT OF THEM, and if I'd wanted to hit them, I could have done so any time.  While I considered that a critical distinction, she didn't quite seem to "get it"...  

Another time, my rather unpleasant grandmother trashed the kitchen while making a mid-afternoon snack.  She did this most every day, and it was my job to clean the kitchen, day in and day out, not just regular meals but her afternoon forays too.  I'd get the damn thing white-glove clean from lunch and she'd go in and lay waste to the kitchen again. She made no effort to wash dishes or limit the number of utensils used (i.e., she'd use 8 different spoons, one for each operation, rather than reusing the same one 8 times, etc.)  Another of her favorite things to do was to lazily leave the silverware drawer open while cooking, rather than to shut it and re-open it when needed... So, naturally, now and then she'd get flour, grease, etc. in the silverware drawer, requiring me to pull everything out and clean it ALL.  Needless to say, this got REAL damned old.  

Well, one day she did it one time too many.  I'd had it -- it was PAYBACK TIME.  My dad had a row of tomato plants out back that she would go inspect each day.  When the tomatos would reach their peak of succulent ripeness, she'd pick them, take them into her room, and devour them -- no sharing with the rest of the family.  That, too, was a sore point.  As I fumed in my upstairs room about her latest mass destruction of the kitchen, my eye fell upon two beautiful, ripe tomatos that had been nearing perfection for the past 2-3 days.  Today was probably the day she'd pick them.   Then my gaze swept across the Daisy 880 leaning innocently in the closet.  Tomatos... 880.  Tomatos... 880.  Hmmmmm...

Stepping out onto the balcony, I selected a Crosman .177 wadcutter pellet, and turned it around backwards, creating a wicked hollowpoint for maximum terminal effect.  10 pumps later, I drew a bead on the first of the lush, vine-ripe tomatos.  KA-PAAAAOOOOWWWWW.... SPLAT!!!  The tomato shook under the impact of the high velocity hollowpoint pellet, and hung on the vine, quivering slightly.  Ohhhh, yessssssssss, that was better... much better!!  10 more pumps, another hollowpoint pellet in the breech, and a steady sight picture on the second tomato... Ka-PAAAOOOOOOOWWWW... SCHPLATTT!!  The second tomato was toast, hangingly limply on its vine, mute testimony to my heinous crime against the private larder out back.  I felt much better, and put the 880 away, not thinking too much more about it.

Well, the grandmother went out on her usual afternoon inspection tour, walking up and down the row of tomato plants like Patton inspecting new recruits, and then stopped in front of my two victims, the ripe, juicy but now ventilated tomatos.  She looked at the hole in the front... Hmmm... Looked at the backs of the tomatos... Hmmmmm....   and went inside to get my stepmother (who wasn't real fond of her either...)   "Mary, come look at this!   What kind of bug do you suppose did this??"  

My stepmother, while not a gun buff, has a keen analytical mind and nothing escapes her.  Hmmmm... Small, cookie cutter hole in the front... Star-shaped exit wound in the back... and triangulating the lines of the two bullet tracks shows they converge on my bedroom window.  "Virginia, I think those were LEAD BEETLES!!"  "Lead beetles!!  I never heard of those before!"  

And that was the end of it... nobody ever said my grandmother was a rocket scientist...  

Hope there's a lot of finish remaining on that mag -- I'm looking forward to getting it!!
John

My adventures were similar though not nearly as glamorous as those posted above.  The only one of note involves a Daisy pump circa 1952.

That model's magazine was part of the tubular barrel insert.  One problem I always had was properly screwing the barrel/magazine insert back into the muzzle of the gun.  If not done correctly, the first round would jam.  That is, the trigger would pull back but the gun would not fire.  It was then necessary to unscrew the barrel/magazine at which point the gun would fire on its own, launching the barrel/magazine across the room.  One day when it jammed, I held my hand in front of the barrel as I unscrewed it so it wouldn't launch.  I stopped it, OK ....and the BB....with my hand.  Took the BB in the palm near the index finger.  A trip to the ER, an Xray to find the BB and two stitches fixed me back up.  I didn't use that technique anymore!

I have 3 true stories, I let you judge if they are funny or not.....

1.  I was a toddler still in diapers, and one of my great uncles had twisted senses of humor.  The BB gun was the one pistol that looked like a Colt SAA they made these in the 70's and 80's I guess.  Uncle Johnny thought it would be funny if he shot me in the ass with it unloaded (thinking the noise alone would make me cry).  After five or six succesful tries, I was screaming in terror (and pain).  My Pappaw came to my rescue, and told Uncle Johnny to stop, as the womenfolk were getting pissed.  He pointed it at my mom and said somthing like.... "Suzie, it ain't loaded I was just scaring him a little"....  and proceeded to shoot my mom point blank in the tit. It was loaded after all!

2. I was 13 and my older brother was 15.  Ofcourse, I had pissed him off as only little brothers can, and he began chasing me trough the house with his M16 clone BB/Pellet gun.  I ran through the hall which leads to the kitchen door.  As I was fumbling with the door knob Dave came up behind (I could feel him setting up his natural point of aim, and getting correct sight alignment center mass on my back).  I thought the door would never open...It seemed like hours.....finally it opened and I sprinted through to the kitchen just as my Dad came walking up the steps to the kitchen........Suprise!!!! Dad was home early from his EZ Mart maintenance man job (He had just gotten laid off that morning).  My brother saw him too late! Dad took the painful projectile square in his muscular arm......That was 13 years ago, and to this day, I can still hear his screams as Dad did what every East Texas father knows how to do best....."Ware his lil' ass out"

3.  Poor Mom again....I was 15, my best friend was 16.  We were in my room playing with the above mentioned brothers M16 clone.....I was getting FTF's every other shot......we just couldn't figure out why the bb's werent feeding properly.  At this point of the day, I had practiced exceptional Firearms Saftey.  The weapon was unloaded as we worked on it.  We finished it up, and my buddy loaded 'er up.  We were ready for SHTF.  A couple of minutes went by, and I was telling him how powerful that particular gun was....forgetting we loaded it up.....in walks good ole' moms.  She had to get something out of my closet, to this day, I can't remember what she was getting......anyway, she bent over...I swear I forgot it was loaded....well, what my redneck daddy calls "that big 'ole ass" was just to tempting of a target.  I let 'er rip with a copperhead right up the ole pooter.  we laughed our asses off (thinking it "just scared her"), until she knocked me into the previous week.  She was bleeding....my dad had to take her to the emergency room.  I never got punished...I didn't need to be. I felt awfull.  Here comes the funny part......Years later, as my dad was telling my wife the tragic story he concluded with "Do you have any idea how much it cost me to get the doctor to pull that bb out Momma's ass?????"

Its all true...I swear

I thought if I was lucky I would get a dozen stories here.  I really appreciate the  posts.  I have read them all, now I have to figure out how to judge them.  I may see how some of my non-shooting friends react to them.

See which stories really catch the "untrained eye" of a non-shooter.  Look for shock value or humor.

Thanks again,

Zoub

BOY HAVE THE TIMES CHANGED.

I grew up in the inner city of Boston in the 70s. In order to own an air rifle, a person had to be 18 with a state firearms permit. I was 14 and while I was away out of state at camp I sumggled back a BB rifle. Let me tell you, for a short time I was King of the neighborhood. City kids never saw BB guns before. It wasn't long before some mean adults called the cops with a report of a kid with a gun complaint. The police showed up at my door and knowing they wanted to take the gun, I quickly opened the door holding the gun to give it to them. If this was the 90s, I probably would have ended up dead. Instead the police were cool as ice. They gave me a stern talking to and told me and my Mom that I was breaking the law having the gun. What they did next was the best. They set up a small shooting range down in my basement and even stuck around to sight it in for me. They said keep it out of sight of the neighbors and have fun. WOW. Try that now-a-days.

I haven't read all the other posts.  Hope I'm duplicating something else.

I was about 16 and was dating this gal who was from kind of a well to do family.  They were a tad on the liberal side but her younger brother/dad did have a BB gun.  They had just moved out into the "burbs" from the city and were all into it.  They had there first garden and as the land to the back of their house had yet to be developed they also had lots of critters.  They actually loved to watch the bunnies and deer as much as the garden.  

Well I was over 1 Saturday and a bunny rabbit comes hopping out and starts munching in the garden.  My GFs mother starts knocking on the kitchen window in an attempt to scare it away.  I say "Hey I'll just put one pump in the BB gun and that will sting his ass and he probably won't come back".  Well she wasn't real sure but GFs father says I'd like to see you hit that rabbit from here.  One thing leads to another and the whole family is lined up to see if Mark can tag a bunny, with a BB from about 35 yards.  I put one pump into and get prone at the sliding glass door and then instinct takes over.  I don't remember doing it but when hunting still game with under powered rifles I was told to go for a head shot.  You will either have a clean kill or a clean miss.  

Poomp!

The rabbit does a back ward somersualt and goes limp.  

BB right in the right eye.

No body said a word for the rest of the day.

So what was for dinner?  

CJ

Does it count if my story involved a pellet rifle?  

Steve-in-VA's brother, Greg, and I got home from school one afternoon.  It was typical for us to go out with his father's vintage Crossman 760 pellet rifle to shoot birds and whatever else came into view.  I nailed a blackbird sitting on a fence in their backyard center-mass.  Didn't even know what hit him.  

Not long afterwards, their cat got hold of the body and started eating it.  We came up with the brilliant idea to dispose of the body by burning it in an empty trash can.  As I watched, Greg threw in the bird, liberally doused it with the gas can and threw in a match.  The WOOOOOOOSH of the ignition was impressive, backing me up several feet.  As the flames started to die out, he picked up the gas can and started pouring more in.  Just as I was about to tell him how stupid this act was, the flame rode up the stream of gas and caught the rubber spout of the can on fire!  Shit!  He panicked and tossed the flaming can in the air!  

Knowing what was about to happen, I whirled and ran like a scalded dog, not wanting to be caught in the explosion.  My next sensation was the slap of heat on the back of my neck, quickly followed by a louder WOOOOOSH and a brilliant flash of light.  I didn't look back until I got across the street, fully expecting to see a stick figure of Greg, screaming in flames!  

As luck would have it, the can was almost empty and made more noise than anything else.  Both of were shaken, but sustained no burns.  The house got scorched, and there were small fires that we quickly stomped out.  Aside from that, I think we both cheated death.

My next sensation was the slap of heat on the back of my neck, quickly followed by a louder WOOOOOSH and a brilliant flash of light.

Not to hijack the thread or anything, but I was suddenly reminded of something I hadn't thought of in years.

My Boy Scout troop was camping near a small pond and doing some fishing.  We had just finished up a fine dinner of fried catfish and were cleaning up afterwards.  

The fifty-five gallon steel drum we were using as a trash can had long since been crammed full, but there was a lot more trash to be disposed of.  It was either our scoutmaster or one of his assistants who decided the best thing to do would be to burn the trash out of the can to make room for the rest of it.

We all stood around, eager to learn a new trick or two as we watched our intrepid leader empty most of a 1-gallon gas can over the garbage.  I don't think I was further than about 10 feet away when he dropped in the match.

kaBOOOM!  

The shock wave staggered us all back, the heat had us patting our faces and eyebrows to see if they were still intact, but the real fun began when the flaming trash began to rain upon us.  It took most of fifteen minutes to stomp out the last of the flames.  Luckily nobody was the least bit injured.

How we would have howled and screamed with laughter had not every last one of us been frightened near unto death.

(And I'm sure somebody had their BB gun along that night).

I had a top of the line Power line 880...
 My best friend and I would hold shooting matches at each other! There were rules though.
 Since I had the pump, we had the usual 2 pump limit. My pal had a daisy undercocker repeater(CO2)pistol. It stung like hell but was limited in range and power.  We had regular meetings where we would have a bad guy shootout. We would duck behind any cover we could find. My pal Mike would always get me with the speed of his repeater. I will never forget the time we hit the railroad tracks. We would walk down the railroad tracks shooting anything that moved. Leaves, sticks, and empty pop cans were dead on arrival. Rabbits and birds were also shot on sight. We walked about three miles until we were becoming a little uneasy and were a little too far from our normal stomping grounds. We decided to have a shootout. We would place our backs back to back, in dual position; and begin walking...counting to twenty.
    I could expect to feel the sting of a bb in the center of my back at about the count of 18. I ran a few feet and jumped behind a sapling and I felt 3 more bb's hit home right in the center of my back. There were no larger trees in my area for me to hide behind. As usual...Mike was behind a six foot wide oak tree. I laid down on the ground to make myself a smaller target. Every few seconds I would feel the WHAP!!!! of another bb hitting my body. I got the bright idea that If was going to hurt him once and for all. I pumped it up and pumped up my powerline twenty times; and inserted a pellet. I looked through my bushnell pellet gun scope I saw Mikes' CO2 cartridge had run out. There is a tell tale psssssssssttt!!! when the CO2 cartridge runs out. Mike carried his CO2 cartridges and packs of bb's in a small plastic tackle box. I looked through my scope I noticed he was 30 feet away from his prized tackle box. I heard him say, "Hey...wait...", and saw him waving his hat from behind the tree. I saw his hand going up and down real slow. I held the cross hairs right on his hand; and let the pellet go with a loud snap!!! I could tell by how loud the snap was that I pumped it too much out of anger. Mike let go a squeal. I saw his hat fall, and his pistol fall out from behind the tree. He dropped to his knees and held his hand in agony.   I knew I hurt him. I was pondering whether to help him...or just run off.  When I went up to him he was holding his thumb out, screaming and crying. His thumb was swollen and purple. Mike squeezed on the wound and was still screaming and crying. I saw him squeeze the pellet out of his thumb. On the way home he had me carry his tackle box. The blood was flowing from his wound. I think Mike ended up telling his Dad that he shot a rock and it ended up richochetting back at him. We were adventurous young boys; and I thank God every day that I have both my eyes. And thumbs......
    The moral of the story is stick to the two pump limit and no pellets. Ha! Ha!
                        jerryboy

On a hot South Texas summer day me and my cousin would walk "the ditch". The ditch was a place of fancy, a place of wonder, you could pracitcally feel the animals in its vicinity. Squirels along its edge, rabbits flowing like wine, birds as far as the eye could see. What a beutiful place of childhood air rifle freedom! What bounty! We would walk the ditch every time we were in EDNA, and search through its contents for anything worth shooting. This ditch is where my shot occured. Before I spin my tale we need a little background.

Me and my cousin were true afficianados of air rifles, we could calculate muzzle energy of different guns and pellet setups, total cleaning of our guns was a ritual never missed, ect. (even though they were by no means high preformance rifles) In short we were true experts in every sense of the manner involving air rifles. We would go through nearly two tins a day 1000+ rounds walking "the ditch". Our marksmanship skills with air-rifles became nothing short of extraordinary. Doves at 50 yards with a headshot open sights were no problem at all. We could hit anything almost everytime within range. I was using a 100$ Beeman 600 fps rifle, my cousin was using a wal mart "biathalon" crossman 400 fps always paired with Beeman pellets. (he himself made me gape in awe with his long range shooting abilities considering he was using a gun shooting 400 fps)
We had a true "feel" of our guns, elevation was never adjusted, we just felt where we needed to aim and let loose almost always hitting our mark.

One day I took the shot. It was WHITE, the ditch was HOT, and so were we. We walked all day, nearly fruitless save for a small dove taken at 35 yards through the eye. (my cuz)
I had taken nothing, I had seen Bushy tails but they darted for cover too quickly for either of us to take our shots. We walked farther untill we got to the massive dead tree, it had to have been over 4-5 stories tall. It was a TALL tree. Me and my cousin turned around, for home. Then something miraculous happend, something wonderfull. It felt like someone tapped my shoulder to turn around. God perhaps, or maybe instinct. On the tree was a bird, about 100 yards away from me on the very top of the tree. A shilouete in the sun. "Dont shoot, youll waste your pellet." my cousin said. It was true and I knew it. I could never hit that bird. I raised my gun anyway, pointed at the bird and then raised the sights about a 2 ft higher to compensate for the distance and the fact I was shooting up at the bird. I let loose, and nothing. "see" my cousin remarked. 3 seconds later the bird looked like it was going to fly off, but instead did a summersault off the top branch and did several mid air flips before it landed in a oozy puddle of muck in "the ditch".

  Needless to say, we were in AWE. My cousin remarked with a sudden "godamn!" we both knew it was luck, yet still it was amazing. Hands down the most impressive shot between us. I cannot acuratly describe to you the reader what beutiful form it took as it dived from the tree. It did no less than three "flips" in mid air, miraculously never hitting a branch on the way down. We ran back to it, and found it in the puddle. It was alive, and wadding to the edge of the pond. MY HEART SANK. This was the most beutiful bird I had ever seen, it had a beutiful yellow HUE under his neck, his body was metalic blue, and his head was white. He had a red hue on the skin under his beak. Somehow I knew this animal was endagerd, instinct told me that. The pellet hit it in the wing, and no doubt this bird wouldnt fly again. My cousin took initiative and shot it in the head. Later I found out it was on the protected list.

I have never shot at a bird since that day I felt soo horrible.

My story pales when compared to the others here, but it is my only somewhat interesting BB gun story....so here goes.

I found my dad's old BB gun in the garage when I was about 6, a chrome plated lever cocking Daisy, the stock held in place with a stove bolt, but it seemed like finding a mint condition USGI M16 in the tool shed at the time.

Anyway, I set out to shoot some pop bottles in the back yard.  First shot was at a 16 oz. Coke bottle from about ten feet.  I hit it with the shot, but nothing happened to the bottle.  I fired again and again, getting close each time.

After dodging rebounded BBs from perhaps 20 direct hits, some less than an inch from the bottle, in frustratin I finally smashed that %*@#^%$%& bottle with a rock !

I REALLY DONT LIKE TO TELL THIS STORY BUT FOR A COLT MAG I WILL . IT WAS 1979 AND I WAS 10 I WAS SPENDING A WEEKEND AT MY GREAT GRAND MOTHERS PLACE IN THE MOUNTAINS OF N.C. WELL MY GRANDMOTHER WHOM STILL HATES ME TO THIS DAY (LITTERALLY) WOKE ME UP THAT MORNING AND TOLD ME SHE HAD SOME STUFF TO DO AND TO PLAY IN THE YARD WITH MY NEW .22 CAL PELLET RIFLE IT WAS A GLORIOUS RIFLE THE MORE YOU PUMPED IT THE MORE POWERFUL IT BECAME. ANYHOW I WAS SHOOTING AT STUFF IN THE YARD AND SAW SOMETHING BRIGHT GREEN BOBBING UP AND DOWN IN THE GARDEN IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE SO BEING THE GOOD SHOT THAT I AM I BEGAN TO PUMP THE RIFLE UNTIL I GOT TIRED (30 PUMPS) AND TRAINED MY RIFLE ON THE OBJECT THAT WAS MOVING.I I PULLED THE TRIGGER (I DIDNT KNOW A PELLET GUN COULD KICK) ABOUT THAT TIME MY GRANDMOTHER HOLDING HER RIGHT ASS CHEEK IN HER RIGHT HAND LET OUT A BLOOD CURDLEING SCREAM MIXED WITH MY NAME. THE RACE WAS ON I DIDNT KNOW A 60 YR. OLD COULD MOVE THAT FAST OVER FENCES THROUGH CREEKS MAN I WAS THINKING IS SHE EVER GOING TO STOP. TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT I RAN AWAY FROM THE HOUSE AND IT WAS GETTIN PRETTY DARK (PITCH BLACK)I FINALLY CAME BACK TO THE HOUSE AFTER MAKING SEVERAL PASSES IN FRONT OF WINDOWS TRYING TO SEE WHERE SHE WAS AT IN THE HOUSE AND IF I COULD MAKE IT TO MY BEDROOM IN TIME TO LOCK THE DOOR DIDNT SEE HER ANY WHERE.I TOOK MY CHANCES AND RAN IN THE FRONT DOOR STRAIGHT TO THE BEDROOM I WAS SLEEPING IN AND LOCKED THE DOOR  I WAS SAFE (SO I THOUGHT )ABOUT THT TIME THE SIGH OF RELIEF CAME OUT THE CLOSET DOOR BEHIND ME BEGAN TO CREEK AND OUT CAM MY GRANDMOTHER WITH THE BIGGEST SWITCH I HAD EVER SEEN SHE BEAT ME UNTIL SHE GOT TIRED. THEN SHE RESTED UP AND BEAT ME AGAIN (WHICH I RIGHTFULLY DESERED)AFTER WORDS I HEARD MY GRANDMOTHER IN THE BATHROOM SAYING WORDS I HAD NEVER HEARD BEFORE IT TOOK 45 MIN. TO DIG THAT PELLET OUT OF HER BUTT TO THIS DAY SHE STILL DOESNT TALK TO ME I THOUGHT ABOUT BUYING HER A PELLET GUN AS A MAKE UP PRESENT 23 YEARS LATER I STILL ASK MY MOM ABOUT HER EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE..      

That reminds me... I DO have a small story of a good shot with a BB gun.

It was actually a pellet pistol, but I think it counts.

It was up on my grandma's farm in north Alabama when I was a kid (well, maybe 15 or 16 at the time) on vacation.   I was out wandering around in the patches of woods between farms with my always accurate, always reliable Benjamin Franklin pellet pistol, which I had become VERY accurate with.  I walked out of the woods after a while and was walking along the roadside heading for the house and I noted a blackbird high up in a very tall tree.  The total range to the bird from where I was standing must have been at LEAST 150 or 200 feet, and the tree I'd guess was near eighty feet tall.

I did the obvious thing.  I loaded a pellet, pumped the pistol up about twenty times, took careful aim a bit over the target, and squeezed one off.

That bird fell out of the tree without so much as a twitch.  A perfect brain shot!   It took me a while to find it because when you walk into the woods looking for a tree you saw from outside, you don't always find it easily since the route isn't always a direct one.

That was my single best shot with a pellet pistol under field conditions.

I once threw an egg sized rock at a bird sitting on a power line,  and the rock would have missed but the bird took off and zigged when it should have zagged, and flew right into the rock's path, impacting the left wing and sending the bird (a dove) into the only flat spin I've ever seen a bird go into.  It landed on the ground, shook itself, and took off, apparently none the worse for wear.   I had to practically pick my jaw up off the ground.

I shot a few birds with my pellet pistol when I was a teenager, but I stopped after severely injuring a mourning dove (almost amputated the left wing) and the beautiful creature died in my hands, and never once struggled in my hands when I picked it up.   If there's just one shot I could take back, it would be that one.

I don't shoot songbirds anymore, or any birds for that matter...but I would hunt SOME birds if the opportunity arose.  Certainly not doves, though.

I raised an abandoned baby mourning dove by hand, which was only 8 days old, some years later. I think that evened the score.  It turned out to be a remarkable pet and it was allowed to leave when it decided it was time to do so.

CJ

First off Blackeye was cheating he was using special BBs(BALL BUSTERS) we can't get them here!

 So in all our BB wars nobody would fess up to being hit,so we would take black used axle grease and coat our BBS.   We would also put it on the magazine tube where the small spring clip would stop further loading of BBS.

We all used lever action ,and single shot pump Red Ryder guns.   But some allowed in the wars were using Beng pumps so they were allowed only one pump!

 The point is when you were shot the tell tail black BB ring was on your tee shirt,proof-positive you were hit,we were maybe the first paint-ballers!

 All the shit stopped when my younger brother went home with a black ring and a BB stuck right between his eyes!   My folks alowed that inch or two either direction fun was over!


Bob

I grew up in the deserts of southern AZ so there were always plenty of us out shooting lizards, hornytoads and any other available targets.  One day a friend of mine accidentally shot me in the arm with his little red rider lever action from about 15 ft.  At that distance not even a sting.  It surprised us both and he started begging me not to tell and in exchange he would let me shoot him back.  I had just got a new crossman pump for christmas so i gladly obliged him.  Not realizing how much more powerful my gun was than his, I pumped the gun up and shot him in the big toe.  The bb passed through the toenail and was lodged under the nail.  OUCH!  needless to say we both received the bad end of dads wrath including no guns for a long time.  Learned my lesson but I'll never forget the look on his face when that bb hit home.  

About 5 years ago, when my younger brother was 9, we went BB shooting in the back yard.  I was 15 at the time.  My brother picked up the gun, and thinking it was unloaded, pulled the trigger.  The gun was loaded and pumped up, and the BB hit the window.  The window was double-paned, and the BB went through the first pane, chipped the second pane, and fell to the bottom of the window between the panes.  He was grounded from using the BB gun for several months.  Fortunately no one was hurt, and the window was going to come out and be replaced soon anyway.

Ok, so who won??

Growing up my best friend, also my neighbor, and I hunt turtle doves in our backyards. The cops frowned upon such activity as we lived in the middle of town. So we got to where we could drop our guns flat on the ground at the slightest sight of a cop car. Until they changed colors. Then they went with several cars of different colors, the cheaters.

My best shot was one dove sitting on the phone line over another neighbors garage. I sneaked up below it, using the lilac bushes as cover, and put one shot through its breast. It let loose of the wire and fell to the garage roof. Then flop, flop, flop, flop it rolled down the roof. Baaammm, it landed on the ground. Just like a cowboy in a western. Coolest shot ever!

What a way to make your first post!house

Chris    

My BB gun story just happened before Christmas. I am a huge Christmas Story fan and the local radio station was giving away Red Ryder BB guns and tickets to see A Christmas Stort performed at a local little theater. Long story short, my wife won the BB gun from the radio station and surprised me with it. So I set up a trap in my aundry room and shot from my kitchen into the laundry room. But I had this wierd voice in my head "you'll shoot your eye out." Needless to say I couldn't comfortably fire one BB until I found my safety glasses. I guess I have seen the movie enough that it is just drilled into my head.

I lived upstairs.  My room was an attic converted to a bedroom. It had one small window overlooking the backyard.
I got to stay home by myself on Saturdays, so I began amusing myself by "bird sniping" from my window.
I soon found out I could "bait the field" by scattering a half box of cereal and slices of bread in the morning and have great shooting all day.
The next spring, I had a hell of a time trying to explain the dozens of bird remains in our yard once the snow melted.
I tried to convince them that our dog must have learned to catch birds.  NO LUCK!!
My best shot was a starling sitting in the top of a very tall maple.  I had a .177 single shot and hit the bird square in the back of the head.  The bird raised it's wings in a "V" and rotated like a helicopter very slowly about 80 ft to the ground.