I try to come home with a story each time I play pub poker. Yes, more often than not it's a bad beat that I drag back with me like an angry cat still attached to my leg. Tonight is different.
I knew I would get called, soundly beat, and, as has become my habit, refused the re-buy. C, with sad eyes, said, "I don't like it when you don't re-buy." Fifteen runners tonight, and therefore a quieter group. Perhaps I should have taken advantage of that and stayed.
Perhaps my quotient for patience was exhausted. The gray digger squirrel is still under the pump house. I pulled up a chair downwind twenty yards with the 20 gauge loaded with #4 shot and tried to enter its sense of time. But the wind had a chill for what I was wearing, and I began to nod off after an hour or so.
Late night addendum: tripling up on PA in 50 hands ain't too shabby.
3 comments:
Two words: Poison Peanuts
The ground squirrel; not the poker player.
You sure about un-loading #4's around a pump house pressure tank?
Ken - Tried it. No go. This is not a critter I am all that familiar with and its diet seems to consist of green stuff in the grass. Time to google.
TM - While no longer the shot I once was, I have taken trajectory into consideration. As I have vivid memories of the skunk that crawled back under the building a couple years back, I went with #4 to drop this sucker in its tracks. Very effective with ferals.
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