The Cheney story this weekend was the source of no small amount mirth in my household, but probably not for the same reason as in other households. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

The story has been bandied about the MSM today as if the VP was on a rampage, pumping slugs into random elderly gentlemen. The fact is, it isn’t nearly as serious as initial reports implied. He was using birdshot, and hunting quail. We’re not talking an elephant gun and a slug here. We’re talking small birdshot pellets. Whittington's daughter said his face looks like he has chickenpox, so it’s not the end of the world - certainly not the sort of description you'd normally expect of someone whose face was on the business end of a shot gun.

My husband, who used to go bird-hunting quite frequently when he was younger, tells me that pepperings are a pretty common bird-hunting mishap. He explained that a trio hunting fowl will often walk in a sort of triangle pattern:

The people on the left and right shoot left and right. The person behind them doesn’t shoot. Misjudge your shooting range, or wander into the wrong area, and you’ve got trouble.

If the VP’s buddy had vacated the area, then "snuck up on them" and didn’t let them know he was there, that was a colossally bad decision. Granted, the shooter almost always bears some responsibility when something goes awry, but after wandering into the field of fire, walking away with a good peppering is probably a bit of luck.

The biggest cause of angst in the MSM seems to be that some small-town newspaper got the story before they did.

At any rate, back to the source of mirth.

I’ve talked about my father-in-law before –ex-Special Forces, three-and-a-half-tours-in-Vietnam veteran, and all-around top notch guy. He’s also a pretty unique guy, and some elements of that Special Forces mentality definitely remain.

So when the Cheney-shoots-buddy story hit, I was reminded of a story my husband told me, which just typifies my father-in-law, and is pretty amusing, to boot.

Once, when my husband was a teenager, they went out hunting pheasant. The marching order was like this:

So they’re wandering along, and my father-in-law apparently decides that he’s tired of his boys having to wait for the pheasants to show up on their own – he’s going to see if he can flush some.

Off he goes, out around the flank to the right, and up ahead.

Neither my husband or his brother see Dad move off. Didn’t hear him, either – Dad knows how to move through the underbrush.

At last, my husband spots a pheasant rising out of the grass. He takes aim, follows the bird, and--

--sees his father, dead center in his sights, facing away, watching the bird.

Immediately moving the gun so that he isn’t about to shoot at his Dad, my husband yells to him. “Dad!! What are you doing there?!”

My father-in-law, having turned around to face him, is yelling, too. “Shoot it! Why didn’t you shoot it?!”

“Dad-you were right there!” My husband is a little freaked out now – pheasant the least of his concerns.

“You should’ve taken the shot!” My father-in-law is still yelling.

Exasperated, my husband finally says, “Dad, Jesus! If I’d shot, I would have hit the back of your head!”

My father-in-law’s response?

“I was in 'Nam. I would have ducked.”

Gotta love my father-in-law.