I don't know if it is every father's nightmare, but it's mine. I am out shooting with my children or grandchildren. Something goes wrong, and I shoot one of them. No consolation is possible, not from friends, not from the total of the world's priests, preachers, philosophers, and grief counsellors. And it probably wouldn't have helped for a DNR cop to announce to the world what a lucky SOB I am.
It happened a couple of hours south of me Saturday.
The 18-year-old son is badly hurt but expected to survive what is reported as a partial load of pheasant shot in the back of his head. Conservation cops don't know what happened but speculate the father "may’ve lost his footing going through cover and in the act of tripping, the gun misfired or fired ...".
Misfired? Come on, Officer. The result of a "misfire" on a pheasant hunt is a frustrating "click," nothing worse.
The same game cop then moves to a safety homily, displaying all the human sensitivity of Genseric turned loose among the daughters of Rome:
" ...the shooting likely would have been fatal if the pair had been deer hunting and he had been hit by a deer slug."
Thank you, officer. Us stupid civilians would never have thought of that, and who gives a damn about adding a little bit to a father's feelings of horrified guilt.