Loaded guns... Part I and II

Day 1:

I'm sitting in the glassed-in porch probably wishing for death to come as I listen to Fox News and numbly putz away at a puzzle that has been sitting there, collecting dust, for about 4 months. It's the beginning of fall, and the leaves are starting to turn. Now, for those of you who may not be aware, gardening is my grandmother's life. To be quite honest, she's great at it, and she does have a garden worth bragging about. Things like that also attract animals who wish to eat such gardens. My first year in college, living with the G-units, my grandpa and I put up an 8 foot high, electric fence around the entire property, to keep the deer out. Well, it worked for about 3 days, then he resorted back to shooting them with bird-shot shells. (Tiny tiny little pellets that do little more than sting when an animal is shot with them. They're meant to scare, not injure.) Anyway, my grandpa comes running in with his rifle, (which even as soon as two weeks after moving in, I was used to) bitching about a deer in the yard eating the Hostas. He quickly, and carelessly tries to load the gun, but alas, by the time he does, the deer has moved on, and is no longer a contestant in the Hosta shooting gallery. Grumbling about his missed opportunity because it took him too long to load the gun, he decides to leave it loaded for next time he needs it, therefore saving him time, and not costing him a lesson with a fortunate deer. I somehow knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that having a loaded gun could not end well...

Day 2:

So there I was... the very next day, sitting in my room doing anything other than watching Fox News, when my grandfather calls down, "Zack! Zack! There's a deer in the yard!" (Imagine Walter Matthau yelling that, and that's pretty much my grandpa) Now, I really don't care, and I certainly don't care to see him shoot one with bird-shot shells, but my curiosity got the best of me, and I meandered upstairs just in time to see grandpa fumbling with the rifle. Yeah, the one he loaded yesterday. He's trying to get it to open so he can put a shell in it. As I'm inhaling to say "But dude, you loaded it yesterday," the gun fires into the carpet, and all I hear are dozens of little tiny tiny pellets ricocheting off the walls, the ceiling, pictures, anything. We both look at each other, stunned, although I'm sure my face was more like "really?" My grandma comes storming down the hall, and instantly starts grilling my grandpa for a gun going off in the house. It was one of the few times I've witnessed such an occasion where my grandpa actually deserved it. No one was hurt, the deer got away, the carpet was fine, and Fox News was on...