Welcome to the latest edition of the Summary of Mishaps, where folks both learn and exhibit their limitations.
The latest iteration of the Not-O.K. Corral was in a backyard, which contained a Marine's wife, his dog and a second (obviously unwelcome) dog. The Marine heard a scream, grabbed his .22 and raced to the scene. The dogs were fighting. He tried to break up the fight, hard to do under the best of circumstances, and something that gets even harder when you put a bullet through your own foot.
Not sure what his original plan was. Scare an intruder, had it been a human? Shoot the strange dog? One thing's for sure, if you're going to fire, don't wade into the middle of the snarling and snapping. If not, you might want to put the pistol on safe and take your finger off the trigger.
If you think the end of your leg is a feasible dogfight-intervention device, consider the following. In Virginia, a hospital corpsman third class went to a barbecue, accompanied by his dog. There he met his brother, who also had a dog. Brothers usually like each other, but these canines definitely didn't, at least not when a bone was introduced into the proceedings. Snarling, growling, snapping, biting and chewing (not on the disputed bone) immediately ensued.
The corpsman ran over and stuck his bare foot into the melee. And that's where his dog bit him.
Next time, try a broom, or a dousing from a garden hose with the nozzle set on "jet." Keep your hands and feet out of there.
A seaman, being a new driver and realizing that he needed some practice, cruised onto the perimeter road at an air station. Going about 45 miles per hour, he didn't realize the road curved right (note to other novice drivers: when you're driving around military installations, the roads probably aren't going to go straight forever). He lost control, drove his Mustang into a ditch, hit the gas instead of the brakes, bounded out and crashed into a parked car.
Practice driving: free. Practice calling tow truck and insurance agent: expensive.
One night in Louisiana, a lance corporal was engaged in what the mishap report called "frogging." I myself once spent several dark and memorable summer nights wading around in warm ponds with a flashlight and a frog gig, catching the next night's entrée.
We always called it "frog gigging," so I briefly wondered at the absence of the gig (a 4-foot pole with a little trident on the tip) from the description of what the Marine was doing. But I expect he wished he had one when he reached for a frog at the exact moment a cottonmouth tried to bite it, the problem being that the snake got the Marine's hand instead. Next stop for the Marine was the nearest I.C.U.
Somewhere in Louisiana is the luckiest frog in the world.
That's all for this week, folks. Until we meet again, hope for the best and plan on the worst. You may be pleasantly surprised, which will be nice, and at least you'll be prepared, which is better than nothing.