Elaine didn’t know a great deal about guns. Her husband D’Arcy had a gun; a rifle of sorts. He called it a 303. It was left over after the war. She had watched him fire the gun a few times, usually at birds in a tree; something like that. There was never any purpose to it; it was firing the gun at birds for the sake of nothing.
And then he shot her cat. It was just walking past, minding its own business, at the bottom of the garden. Elaine would never forgive him for that. She made meticulous plans to use the gun herself.
She knew to point the gun and pull the trigger. She would do it as he came in through the back door into the kitchen. That way, if the bullet went straight through him, it would go outside into the garden and not make a hole in the wall.
Here he comes now; home from work. He always used the kitchen door. Elaine had the gun sitting on the bench. She grabbed and pointed.
“Goodbye D’Arcy,” she said as she pulled the trigger. “You’ll never kill another cat.”
No one had told her about ammunition.