Gunnotregistered

No, my gun's not registered, but it will be
Police have right to know there is a weapon in my house
Joe Fiorito, City columnist --National Post---January 02,2000
Let me begin with a confession.
In my basement, broken down into oiled and shiny parts, rag-wrapped, and nestled in a specially-fitted, cardboard container, I have a gun.
It is a pretty little thing, a single-barrelled shotgun, Russian-made, 25 years old. I'm not sure where it is, exactly. I think I shoved it behind the old blue trunk, under the shelf where I keep the homemade wine.
Surprised?
Don't be.
I grew up on the edge of the bush. I learned to like hunting as soon as I was old enough to keep up with my old man when he went prowling in the woods.
The first lesson I learned was that guns are dangerous. There is no calling back a bullet. You cannot unpull a trigger. It is a sin to be careless. That's not a bad lesson to learn early.
The second lesson I learned was that, if I was going to shoot at something, it was my duty to hit it.
Because as bad as it is to be careless, it is a worse sin to cause needless suffering.
It turned out I was a pretty fair shot. We ate what we killed. Although rabbits were harder to shoot and skin and eat because they are, anatomically, a lot like cats.
And we had cats as pets. Partridge caused me no qualms whatsoever; forgive me, but partridge are stupid and tasty.
Why did I like hunting?
There is pleasure in the woods -- the clean and quiet air, the crispness of the turning leaves. And when I was young, I was proud to be trusted with something as sudden and irrevocable as a weapon.
I have never been a vegetarian. I have never even been tempted. But I know that most days somebody else must kill what I put on my plate.
As I got older, it occurred to me that it was a good idea to kill my own meat now and then. To remind myself of the life-and-death equation.
And so I kept the habit of going into the bush.
But I haven't hunted for 20 years, and I did not hunt when I lived in the North, and I simply cannot imagine hunting now. It no longer interests me. I don't need to kill my own meat, not for any reason. I have nothing new to learn about death, at least, not for what I hope is quite some time.
So why do I keep my gun?
Why do you keep your old skates? It's as simple as that.
Is my gun registered? Well, no.
Why not? Because at first I was stubborn, and then I was forgetful, and mostly because I have been busy.
Will I register my gun?
Yes. And not because of any penalty I might face; frankly, if I kept my mouth shut, I don't think anyone would even know I had it.
Mine is not the sort of weapon that would be useful to a criminal; in fact, because it is a single-barrelled shotgun, after it was fired once, it would be a liability.
Broken down and hidden away, it's also not likely to be useful as a tool of domestic or self-inflicted violence, especially considering that I don't own any shells.
Like you, I know people who are avid hunters who are more than a little twitchy about gun registration. Please, if you don't own a gun, don't let your big-city knee jerk. Some of us grew up with guns.
And, yes, some of us who own guns are jerks. But it's facile to conclude that gun owners are more prone to paranoia than others. It's also wrong. Frankly, I hate being told what to do. I bet you do, too.
But if something were ever to go dreadfully wrong, and there was a reason for someone to call 911, and if the police were to arrive here in a hurry, then they have the right to know that this is a house in which there is a weapon. Even if, when last seen, it was somewhere in the basement.
That's why I'll register the damn thing.
It's as simple as that.
jfiorito@nationalpost.com