Mistaken

Never shoot unless you're certain of your target. That's what I learned from every trainer at every gun safety class I ever took, and for years I have followed that advice. I hate gambling.

I hate gambling because I always guess wrong. I hate being wrong. My friends think I'm pompous and sanctimonious, but I'm not really. It's just that I hate the searing scrape of dismay that curls through my soul like a spiritual D & C when I do something wrong. I do a lot to avoid that feeling.

Right now I have that feeling because I think I just did something wrong. I just broke my trainers' rule and shot at a shape, not a face. The noise it made when I hit it doesn't match what I expected to hit.

I saw it first on my security cam: a stranger with a swim cap and dark mask over bushy whiskers, scaling my perimeter fence. When I got outside into the cold night the first shape I saw in the vicinity was a silhouette that matched what I had seen on the camera. I aimed right between its sideburns and pulled the trigger, even though I couldn't see its identity. When I shot, it let out a wail in a familiar voice that sent pee trickling down to my sock.

I just raced back in here to look at the camera footage. I've called and called for my bald bouncer, but he's not at his post and his earmuffs are not on their hook.