I shot my Dad. Right in the back of the head. It was an accident. On a quail hunt at 12 years of age my 12-gauge shotgun felt as heavy as an elephant rifle — and as deadly. With six of us in a bowed line we could safely shoot at a certain angle. But, of course, the twists and turns and the snagging brush caused our line to writhe like a drunken snake. I had excelled at shooting squirrels and rabbits. But a quail shoot was different — more hunters, unknown terrain, prancing do