One of the favorite delusions of anti-gun hysterics is that a gun in the home is more dangerous to the folks who live in the house than to would-be home invaders. The theory, which makes sense in progressive circles and to some who’ve stopped taking their psychotropic drugs, is that if a bad guy tries to invade my home in the middle of the night I’m more likely to shoot myself than the invader.
This is transparent nonsense. Plenty of news stories of citizens defending their homes and person with legally owned guns confirm this as nonsense, as does this early Wednesday morning incident from the Chez Thornberry.
My wife and I are owned by a formerly stray, disconnected male cat named Peanut, who adopted us some years back and who has grown sleek and fat on our hospitality (18.2 pounds at his most recent trip to the vet – he’s named for his color, not his size).
Peanut normally passes the night outside, which is right and proper for cats. But he’s currently under house arrest because of an eye injury suffered either in a fracas with a raccoon or another cat, or perhaps from some sharp horticulture. My wife must put drops and salve into his injured eye twice a day, and the less said of the wrestling match this requires the better.
As I was drifting off to sleep early Wednesday, a vision-impaired Peanut, unused to the dark topography of the house, and whose presence in the bedroom I was unaware of, made an unsuccessful leap for the top of the dresser in front of our bed. He didn’t see the clothes on top of the dresser that I had neglected to hang up or put in the clothes hamper. So 18+ pounds of cat, clothes, and some metal objects in a tray atop the dresser, all crashed to the floor.
This clatter was enough to wake me and cause me to roll left and reach for the Colt Trooper Mark III .357 magnum I keep under the bed against the possibility of serious and unbudgeted-for threats. But before I could clear the holster, my wife, more awake than I was, had the light on and had spotted the source of the clamor (and confirmed that, contrary to popular legend, cats do not always land on their feet).
My wife separated clothes and dresser items from shaken cat and hauled the malefactor back to his abandoned living room cat bed. I put the gun back under the bed. And it was back to dreamland for all concerned, even Peanut, who had had enough exploration and excitement for one night. (At least the raccoon hadn’t pulled a gun on him.)
So there you have it. I didn’t shoot my wife or myself. I didn’t blow up the cat (thereby losing more husband points than I and the entire staff of TAS could count, or that I could regain in the time left to me). But I was armed and ready to protect my wife and myself. That’s the way it’s supposed to work. And this is what the Second Amendment is mostly about. It’s so simple you’d think the Feinsteins and Obamas of the world could understand it. But alas.
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