I was 12 or 13 and my Granpa took me squirrel hunting out on a farm his friend owned.
We were about to go into the woods when the owner pulled up in a truck to shoot the breeze with us.
We were out behind a big barn and I was getting antsy to hunt.I walked over to the side of the barn to take a whiz.
Upon finishing,I got my trusty .410 and was walking back over to Granpa and I heard something in the tree above me.
Lo and behold there was a big bushy gray tail stickin' out of a clump of leaves up in the tree.I shouldered my thunder stick and let loose.
Tumbling out and falling on the ground right in front of me fell a large gray cat.
I liked to crap myself for shooting this mans cat before his very eyes.
The farm owner and my Dads Dad started laughing at me.
Turns out that the cat would not be missed at all.
I was hoping that they would show me how to clean it, but Granpa just picked it up and threw it over the bank.
Later that afternoon I learned how to skin a few tree rats.
Granpa is gone,but we still hunt on that place. I got a new grandson that I can't wait to take hunting there.
Here Kitty,Kitty.Maybe we will run into Birman.