I used to routinely shoot squirrels at 40 yards with my air rifle. Best meat on the table.
When I was 5 my dad gave me an air rifle to tote around the farm. After a good 6 months of him watching me shoot tin pie plates he had hung up on the fence and making sure I knew how to handle it safely he mentioned we had pigeons roosting in the barn and he gave me the ok to shoot them. I walked into the barn and sure enough, there was a pigeon sitting on sill of the haydoor. I took aim and shot at it. The pigeon jumped and flew out. I felt pretty incompetent.
The following day I walked back into the barn. That damn pigeon was back! I took aim and shot at it. Same thing ... flew out the haydoor. The next day I walked back into the barn. It was back! This was a super-pigeon! I pursed my lips, cocked my rifle, took very careful aim and shot. Just like every time before it jumped and flew out of the barn. I snuck back into the barn early the next morning. That damn pigeon was sitting on the sill! This went on for a good two weeks. I'd show up, shoot at it, it would fly away only to come back the next morning.
I was way too embarrassed to say anything to anyone. I remembered my dad talking with his hunting buddies around the fireplace late one night that any man who couldn't drop his game with one shot shouldn't be hunting anyway. I was sure he would take my rifle away if he found out I couldn't even shoot a pigeon sitting on a sill. How was I ever going to get invited on a deer hunt?
One night we were eating supper and my dad looked at me and said, "Son, I see you've been busy out at the barn. How do you like your new rifle?"
"Sir ... ?" was about all I could get out of my mouth, half-choking on my cornbread.
He replied, "The pigeons ... I see you've got your rifle sighted in. But you want to make sure you pick up the pigeons once you shoot them. Always do complete work."
I just looked down at my plate, pretty confused.
He smiled at my mom's raised eyebrows, "There's dead pigeons all over the pea patch. Must be 7 or 8 and I see coyote tracks and feathers so he's probably killed more than that. This boy's a good shot!"
It turns out that when I'd shoot the birds they'd fly about half-way across the field behind the barn and drop out of the sky, dead. That was my first lesson in life that not all is as it seems.