Think Clive Cussler writes Paul Blart 
:
Stepping out onto my back deck with the terriers, I glanced over at the garden and saw it.
Roan and black, the groundhog had been raiding my garden for at least two weeks that I was aware; probably longer than that, but that was the period since I had first sighted it .
Raising up in the air, square to me, it watched; I froze. I had only seen the critter on two previous occasions; the first on a morning just like this one, catching a glimpse of its rolling bulk heading for the brush line after I spooked it from a morning meal of green tomatoes, garlic shoots, and asparagus ferns, and a second time farther down in the back of the property. Both times it had fled at the slightest hint of movement on my part.
Not so today. Despite the terriers bounding down the steps to the red 97 Dodge pickup that they were looking forward to taking their morning ride in, the groundhog warily regarded me in my frozen position for 5, 10, 15 seconds, then dropped to the ground, but instead of running to cover, began a hesitant walk, as if the succulence of the ripening greens in the garden were drowning out the primal screams for self-preservation.
Experience told me this was an opportunity if I could be smart. When the ‘pig stopped it’s retreat to the brush and began a halting amble back toward the garden, I slowly melded back into the still open door and softly whistled for the terriers. Honey Girl came immediately, but Sammo failed to materialize, and after a few moments I decided to leave him to lifting his leg on whatever it was that smelled so good to him, and quickly made my way to the hide.
In the sunroom off the master suite I had set up my portable shooting table; on it was my Ruger 17 HMR. The rifle had been a stick of shame since I had gotten it two years ago, with a terribly balanced, narrow stock and an overly long and poorly dimensioned factory barrel that had proven better at wasting ammunition than varmints. Disgust had led me to strip it down to the action and fit a Volquartsen barrel and stock, and while not yet properly bedded, at least it held moa out to 100 yards. The Ruger ‘s rotary magazine was already loaded with Hornady’s best, bolt open. I repositioned the table, glimpsing the grazing groundhog out between the slats of the bamboo shades, and repositioned the stool until I had a natural point of aim. Slowly, ever so slowly, I rolled up the shade, then raised the window, waiting until the furry little zip had its head down to hide my actions; previously, just the action of raising the shade had sent this skittish prey into hiding, so I took my time until I had a shooting port open that granted me adequate windage adjustment and enough clearance to keep from nicking woodwork from the triple paned thermal window frame.
I settled behind the rifle and bringing it to my shoulder found my target; the variable scope was set on a mild 8x for the 50 yard shot. Instinct and practice brought the rifle to weld and closed as I closed the bolt to chamber a round, the critter stood straight up and looked right at me.
As it raised up on it haunches, the varmint put its throat right on the center of the milled crosshairs. Already having the rifle locked in I instinctively began the trigger pull, a thousand different sensations and considerations practiced over the years until they were no longer separate actions but one seemingly fluid movement, not rushed nor hurried, taking the time it took to set the kinetic motion of the fire controls into action without upsetting the point of aim of the rifle. A movement that while relatively short in time, required a finite amount of time nonetheless, and at the end of the trigger pull, at the point of no return before the sear broke and I entered the immutable time span of lock time, the groundhog dropped back down on all fours.
The .17 fired, its sharp bark muted to a loud slap by the Spectre suppressor; the round passed harmlessly through the air where the groundhog’s throat had been a fraction of a second before. Knowing it was a miss I broke follow-through protocol and racked the bolt, taking enough time not to short-shuck the small bolt action, meanwhile keeping my eye on the scope and the varmint within.
The varmint turned away from me and froze, momentarily dazed and confused by the omnidirectional sonic crack and slapping sensation of the 20 grain slug passing mere inches over its back. That moment of hesitation was my moment of opportunity; the groundhog was facing away from me toward 1 oclock, down about 5 degrees, and it’s head low. I torqued the rear bag to bring the crosshairs to a point just above and in front of the right shoulder and almost simultaneously pulled through the still 5 lb factory trigger pull. The Ruger cracked like a squib and the groundhog jerked and rolled over, belly up, tail twitching. This time I maintained follow through, keeping the trigger back until I reaquired the target, racked the bolt to feed a fresh Vmax into the chamber, and watched. After a minute, it was obvious the groundhog wasn’t going anywhere. I opened the action on the Ruger and safed it.
Honey Girl was at my heels, knowing some carnage against a varmint had been committed and eager to investigate it. I descended the stairs off my upper deck and Sammo slunk out from under the Dodge, eager for reassurance; while not exactly downrange, he was outside the window where the varmint hide was, and despite possessing many wonderful qualities, tolerance for loud noises was not one of them. Honey Girl was quick to sense his timidity and took a moment to wrestle him to the ground and then trotted off to the garden, Sammo in tow. I looked around at the distant-but-not-too distant neighbors houses for signs of interest but heard no conversations and saw not a soul. My clear paths of fire were few and carefully chosen, and the suppressor reduced unnecessary interest in and angst over my activities. As I approached the kill site, I casually surveyed the area, and judging by the seemingly idyllic solitude the early morning hour maintained, Operational Security had been maintained.
Not that it would be a big deal if it wasn’t.
The Beast That Ate My Garden lay belly up, thick crimson blood collecting on the grass near the head. It was a sow, but not nursing, probably 12 lbs. I rolled her over; the 20 grain Vmax bullet had entered just above the right shoulder, tunneled along the spine, and exited above the left eye with little expansion, not that any was necessary with that shot placement. After allowing the terriers a little sniff, I disposed of the carcass with a heave into the brush, landing it in the furry remnants of the yearling fawn killed by coyotes earlier this winter.
And that is where the next chapter will likely begin.
Stepping out onto my back deck with the terriers, I glanced over at the garden and saw it.
Roan and black, the groundhog had been raiding my garden for at least two weeks that I was aware; probably longer than that, but that was the period since I had first sighted it .
Raising up in the air, square to me, it watched; I froze. I had only seen the critter on two previous occasions; the first on a morning just like this one, catching a glimpse of its rolling bulk heading for the brush line after I spooked it from a morning meal of green tomatoes, garlic shoots, and asparagus ferns, and a second time farther down in the back of the property. Both times it had fled at the slightest hint of movement on my part.
Not so today. Despite the terriers bounding down the steps to the red 97 Dodge pickup that they were looking forward to taking their morning ride in, the groundhog warily regarded me in my frozen position for 5, 10, 15 seconds, then dropped to the ground, but instead of running to cover, began a hesitant walk, as if the succulence of the ripening greens in the garden were drowning out the primal screams for self-preservation.
Experience told me this was an opportunity if I could be smart. When the ‘pig stopped it’s retreat to the brush and began a halting amble back toward the garden, I slowly melded back into the still open door and softly whistled for the terriers. Honey Girl came immediately, but Sammo failed to materialize, and after a few moments I decided to leave him to lifting his leg on whatever it was that smelled so good to him, and quickly made my way to the hide.
In the sunroom off the master suite I had set up my portable shooting table; on it was my Ruger 17 HMR. The rifle had been a stick of shame since I had gotten it two years ago, with a terribly balanced, narrow stock and an overly long and poorly dimensioned factory barrel that had proven better at wasting ammunition than varmints. Disgust had led me to strip it down to the action and fit a Volquartsen barrel and stock, and while not yet properly bedded, at least it held moa out to 100 yards. The Ruger ‘s rotary magazine was already loaded with Hornady’s best, bolt open. I repositioned the table, glimpsing the grazing groundhog out between the slats of the bamboo shades, and repositioned the stool until I had a natural point of aim. Slowly, ever so slowly, I rolled up the shade, then raised the window, waiting until the furry little zip had its head down to hide my actions; previously, just the action of raising the shade had sent this skittish prey into hiding, so I took my time until I had a shooting port open that granted me adequate windage adjustment and enough clearance to keep from nicking woodwork from the triple paned thermal window frame.
I settled behind the rifle and bringing it to my shoulder found my target; the variable scope was set on a mild 8x for the 50 yard shot. Instinct and practice brought the rifle to weld and closed as I closed the bolt to chamber a round, the critter stood straight up and looked right at me.
As it raised up on it haunches, the varmint put its throat right on the center of the milled crosshairs. Already having the rifle locked in I instinctively began the trigger pull, a thousand different sensations and considerations practiced over the years until they were no longer separate actions but one seemingly fluid movement, not rushed nor hurried, taking the time it took to set the kinetic motion of the fire controls into action without upsetting the point of aim of the rifle. A movement that while relatively short in time, required a finite amount of time nonetheless, and at the end of the trigger pull, at the point of no return before the sear broke and I entered the immutable time span of lock time, the groundhog dropped back down on all fours.
The .17 fired, its sharp bark muted to a loud slap by the Spectre suppressor; the round passed harmlessly through the air where the groundhog’s throat had been a fraction of a second before. Knowing it was a miss I broke follow-through protocol and racked the bolt, taking enough time not to short-shuck the small bolt action, meanwhile keeping my eye on the scope and the varmint within.
The varmint turned away from me and froze, momentarily dazed and confused by the omnidirectional sonic crack and slapping sensation of the 20 grain slug passing mere inches over its back. That moment of hesitation was my moment of opportunity; the groundhog was facing away from me toward 1 oclock, down about 5 degrees, and it’s head low. I torqued the rear bag to bring the crosshairs to a point just above and in front of the right shoulder and almost simultaneously pulled through the still 5 lb factory trigger pull. The Ruger cracked like a squib and the groundhog jerked and rolled over, belly up, tail twitching. This time I maintained follow through, keeping the trigger back until I reaquired the target, racked the bolt to feed a fresh Vmax into the chamber, and watched. After a minute, it was obvious the groundhog wasn’t going anywhere. I opened the action on the Ruger and safed it.
Honey Girl was at my heels, knowing some carnage against a varmint had been committed and eager to investigate it. I descended the stairs off my upper deck and Sammo slunk out from under the Dodge, eager for reassurance; while not exactly downrange, he was outside the window where the varmint hide was, and despite possessing many wonderful qualities, tolerance for loud noises was not one of them. Honey Girl was quick to sense his timidity and took a moment to wrestle him to the ground and then trotted off to the garden, Sammo in tow. I looked around at the distant-but-not-too distant neighbors houses for signs of interest but heard no conversations and saw not a soul. My clear paths of fire were few and carefully chosen, and the suppressor reduced unnecessary interest in and angst over my activities. As I approached the kill site, I casually surveyed the area, and judging by the seemingly idyllic solitude the early morning hour maintained, Operational Security had been maintained.
Not that it would be a big deal if it wasn’t.
The Beast That Ate My Garden lay belly up, thick crimson blood collecting on the grass near the head. It was a sow, but not nursing, probably 12 lbs. I rolled her over; the 20 grain Vmax bullet had entered just above the right shoulder, tunneled along the spine, and exited above the left eye with little expansion, not that any was necessary with that shot placement. After allowing the terriers a little sniff, I disposed of the carcass with a heave into the brush, landing it in the furry remnants of the yearling fawn killed by coyotes earlier this winter.
And that is where the next chapter will likely begin.
