I saw a 4-legged critter scurrying under my wife's car in the garage this weekend.
I was getting ready to go out to the range, and my arms were loaded with guns. I couldn't ID the critter (just barely glimpsed its legs), just that it was about the size of a cat and NOT a cat. (Not a bear, either, Tejon . . . although since today was garbage day, I'm sure a few are around outside right now.) Our garage is attached to the house, so I hit the button to open the garage door and backed into the house with my armload of implements of destruction. All kinds: an AR, a Mauser, a Ruger .41, my micro 1911, a .32, a couple of .22s.
I told my wife, "Drat. We've got a critter living in the garage." She said, "Oh. I forgot to tell you: I thought I smelled skunk in there the other day." (This is a true story . . . the "skunk" doesn't come up merely because of our esteemed THR banjo-playing Kalifornio.)
So, I put on safety goggles (you don't want skunk juice in your eyes - not anywhere on you, actually, but
really not in your eyes), put my (here's the point of the story)
Smith & Wesson Model 34-1 4" .22 lr loaded with Quik-Shok pre-fragmented bullets into my pocket and went out the front door (didn't want the critter coming into the laundry room - I wash my beer bottles in there for homebrewing!) to move the cars out of the garage and start moving boxes to scare me up a critter. (I would only shoot a skunk that was fixing to juice me; I like skunks pretty well otherwise.)
Critter turned out to be a cute little bunny.
I did not shoot him.