Don’t Get Choked Up!

Progress? I guess. But it seemed simpler back in the day: 26 improved, 28 modified, 30 full.

(If you don’t have a clue what we’re talking about here, then you probably meant to pick up “Good Housekeeping” instead of GON. Make the switch now or run the risk of becoming slightly educated about shotguns.)

Over the years, I’ve quite often referred in print to my No. 1 work gun. It’s likely that such term has morphed into a misnomer since there are now three scatterguns scattered around that get roughly equal usage.

The original No. 1 is a 28 mod. 16 gauge. Winchester Model 12. Just celebrated its 61st birthday. Haven’t shot it since… let’s see here now, uh, er… yesterday.

The number two No. 1 is a 26 improved cylinder. Another 16. Another Winchester 1400 auto. It’s a youngster at 49, and I ran two boxes of high-brass Rios through it opening day of dove season. 

 Strangely enough, most of the doves did not seem to notice.

The third No. 1 is the babe of the bunch, a 12-gauge Beretta. It was acquired simply and solely because it was dressed in upland camo as opposed to one of my other Berettas decked out in rather drab black.

If you do not love shotguns, cease this moment trying to figure it out. Get out of the recliner, and go look in your wife’s shoe closet. Now do you understand? Situations, my man. Situations.

No, despite your train of thought, the Beretta does not come with a 30-inch barrel with full choke. (You novices writing this down?) And this is where we get into the question of progress.

I figure it this way: Beretta has been in the gun-making business for more than 500 years. They should also know a thing or two about progress. Guess that’s why they included three different screw-in chokes with my newest addition.

So now, instead of grabbing the GUN with the right barrel length and choke, what I gotta figure out is which CHOKE is in the 28-inch standard Beretta barrel. And if it’s the proper one for the planned recipient of its loudly belched contents. Or if I need to unscrew the one and screw in one of the other two. And if so, which one? And when was the last time I saw them and where did they happen to be (mis)placed? 

I feel a migraine coming on, and we ain’t even got to the good part yet! Which is…

Do you have sons? 

If so, then you know that all this talk about “my” this and “my” that is moot. The Knuckleheads are fully cognizant of the fact that if they desire anything in my possession, ownership is immediately transferred. Just get it and go, and I’ll take the hindmost. (So I’m shooting my favorite Winchester instead of a Beretta; life could be worse!)

So on this dove season opener when Myles picked up the camo Beretta, I grabbed the Model 12 and the 1400 in their double case, and Dylan got his own matte-finish Beretta, and off we went to the field.

Now you may opine that the point of a dove shoot exercise is to shoot a dove. And you would be wrong. Shoot AT, maybe. 

But a dove shoot is a communal gathering that brings friends and loved ones together in a unique setting—where they can dig loudly and mercilessly at each other with each missed shot as doves dipsy-doo past, laughing all the way.

Most of the time. But today, I’ve been watching Myles from the very first time he pulled the camo trigger—which resulted in a very pleasingly plump dove “thunk” into the dust. And the thunks kept coming. And we all were getting impressed. Not to mention jealous.

So when his brother made a remark along the lines of, “Myles is over there shooting like Phil Robertson,” it got me to thinking.

Hey, maybe it’s a left-handed thing, because they don’t make ’em any more left-handed than Myles. He even thinks left-handed.

Yeah, that must be it, because I’ve shot that gun from my right shoulder, and it didn’t perform nearly as well. On the other hand, er, shoulder, Dylan is popping from the right side with decidedly un-shabby results, too.

Looking down at the old 12 in my hands, I know better than to even accuse it; this is the finest pump gun ever produced. So it looks as if we’re on the horns of a very pretty dilemma here…

You know, some folks obsess over worldwide political intrigue or health or humanitarian issues; shotgun chokes bother me.

So a couple of days later, I finally come up with a fairly pertinent thought: just check the choke! And upon doing so am reminded that I removed the improved cylinder and installed the full choke—last year, while shooting geese!

Which means that Myles has pretty well pounded the local dove population despite the FC handicap brought on by my choke-changing memory lapse. Which may well be construed as a simple lack of appreciation of five centuries of progress in shotgun development! 

Said progress, however, could possibly have made Myles even more efficient in the field, resulting in quite a few surrounding acres of even-more-embarrassed friends and kinfolk.

So what’s the answer here, class? Well, I can change chokes on the Berettas. I can even change barrels on the old Winchesters—assuming I can come up with a couple. But I believe an earlier clue leads us to the solution. I look in my gun safe and equate it to a closet—and Mama needs a new pair of shoes!