Seriously, I can't remember how old we were, but pretty young, early teens i would guess, back in the 60's. My first rifle and being all boy, I just couldn't keep my fingers off it.
To make a long story short, my lampshade was a jungle scene and that tiger was too tempting of a target. Sight carefully, squeeze trigger......KABOOM!
Brother asleep in the next room, mother runs in sees blood, assumes he's dead since he never woke up through all this. Turned out the bullet hit the bed post and a wood splinter stuck in his hand. Worse part was when he suddenly awoke to my mom screaming and running through the house yelling "Steve just shot Joe, he's dead", sees the blood on his chest from his hand and then he starts running around screaming "am I gonna die?". My dad never left his bedroom but kept yelling out through the closed door asking if he was dying?
We lived there for many more years until we left home after graduating and my mom never fixed the hole in the wall as a reminder. From then on I learned a huge lesson that I never forgot and gained a huge respect for firearms.
