Now some of you might have a hard time understanding why I am so sad about losing this friend, but I will try to convey to you the significance of our relationship--because it is a very meaningful one in my life!
Yesterday, S and I made the joint decision that it was time for me to (sniffle) sell (sob) my faithful friend/partner on patrol Woodrow, the Kimber Pro CDP II .45 caliber pistol. Woodrow is something else. He looks exactly like the top photo at this link. His namesake is the legendary fictional Texas Ranger, Woodrow Call of Lonesome Dove, et al. He frequently retails at a number with 3 zeros behind it. In short, he is gorgeous! But besides being quite the looker, he was the gun that felt the best in my hand, and when I shot the heck out of him, impressing and amazing everyone who observed me one day when for example, I shot a 6-inch pattern at 25 yards, I knew it was a match made in heaven. When most cops in this country have an ugly black .40 caliber Glock at their sides, Woodrow and I were an easy-on-the-eyes breath of fresh air! PLUS, he's a .45 caliber--the Man Stopper. Folks were tickled to see little ol' me shooting the heck out of such a big, powerful gun. I scored 2nd-highest in my Academy class in firearms. We warmed up on qualification day with dot shooting (colored dots on the targets) and when he saw me shooting out dot after dot, our deadly sharpshooter firearms instructor Sgt. S said to me in front of everyone, "Bella, you're my hero!" (He's one of the few people that calls me Bella.) I love cleaning Woodrow and I always say when I'm done that you could eat off him. I love it when cops ask me what kind of gun I carry, and when I tell them, 100% of them have been impressed. I love walking around the gun range with him, showing him off in my holster. He and I are both show-offs!
Woodrow and I only had a few bad times in a long, storied, beautiful friendship. He did come very close to shooting off my toes once, but it was my fault. I was shooting left-handed and as much as I tried to avoid it, hot expended brass usually hit me in the face, head and sometimes down my shirt. On this occasion, a shell went down my shirt. I pulled my shirt out and jumped up and down trying to shake the red-hot shell out when all of a sudden BANG!!! My finger had still been in the trigger and Woodrow did exactly what he was supposed to do. I froze, thinking I had really done it now, and when I looked down I had bloody stippling all up and down my thigh from the heat of the closeness of the bullet, which most likely had hit the floor right next to my sandaled foot and ricocheted to parts unknown. M. had been shooting in the stall next to me and he had felt the heat and the bang as well, and he slowly peeked around the barricade to see what had happened. I was scared shitless, and I slowly excused myself to go to the bathroom to verify that indeed, I had no more holes anywhere in my body than the ones God gave me. I was so lucky that day.
Then there was last summer when I showed up for annual firearms qualification. Sgt. S made me shoot shotgun first and as usual, he put a lot of pressure on me, telling me to "ding" the target which means to shoot him right between the eyes, which of course, I did. But my game was thrown off that day for some other reasons too, and, unbelievably to all present, I failed qualification. I was humiliated and confused. I had been shooting next to, of all people, the damn Chief, and he took pity on me (sometimes it helps to be a girl) and ordered them to let me try again which they never, ever do. I failed again. Sgt. S said, "Bella, what are you doing to me?" I said that maybe Woodrow's sight had been knocked out of alignment. Sgt. S took Woodrow, shot a few, and said that there was nothing wrong with him. That meant operator error, as in, it was Bella's failure. I drove away, crying and calling S to bawl and tell him the bad news.
Later last year I took not just one, but two marksmanship classes: a regular 1-day one and a 2-day one for women cops only. As always, I had the most beautiful gun in a sea of ugly polymer black ones and as usual, the instructors oohed and aahed over me and Woodrow. Eventually I finally passed qualification, but I realized that if the great gun Woodrow and I were going to maintain the level of greatness we'd always enjoyed, we needed to get our asses to the range on a regular basis like we used to do.
Here's the issues: time and money. I can shoot for free on Mondays (ladies day at the indoor range) but .45 ammo is the most expensive handgun ammo. It's $90 and change on sale at the gun show for 500 rounds, and I typically need to shoot 100 rounds per range visit. But targets cost money too, usually about $1/target (although the instructors at the last marksmanship class I took gave me a whole stack of targets just because they love me--not kidding). But then the time factor comes into play, and my husband, home, and family life come before anything else now. And in case anyone forgot, I'm also working 2 jobs. Basically, it's like what S told me yesterday when I was lamenting at how good a shot I used to be. He pointed out that he used to be a deadly martial artist, but nowadays he no longer has the time and money to train at a dojo regularly like he used to. He made his point, and I sadly agreed that it was time to bid Woodrow adieu. Fortunately, I have a Springfield Armory waiting in the wings to take Woodrow's place when I go on patrol. His name is "Esteban", an obvious namesake. He's a reliable gun but is black and ugly (no offense at all to S who is extremely hot!), yet is a damn easy gun to shoot. He's only a .40 caliber, but that'll stop a man too if I have to, as good a shot as I generally am.
Today I planned on posting Woodrow for sale on the Internet--but first I thought I might send an email to my fellow cops to see if any of them were interested. The subject line was, "Selling my beautiful Kimber Pro CDP." Within 15 minutes I had gotten 4 phone calls and 2 emails, and all of them were concerned colleagues thinking that if I were getting rid of Woodrow, I must be quitting the force. The 1st phone call was from M., who knows how much I love Woodrow, and he asked if I was leaving. Then 2 separate emails only said, "Why????????????"
Now I'm currently in negotiations with one party, and there's another interested party as well. Woodrow will leave with all his accessories such as holsters, magazines, beautiful wooden grips, extra ammo, etc. I will recover a good amount of $--good guns hold their value just like fine jewelry does--but I also want to spend some of it to at least trick out Esteban a little. He has rails on him onto which I can attach a tiny flashlight. I want to equip him with night sights (standard on Woodrow). Or maybe an intimidating laser sight would be the more fun option. And he'll need a duty holster. Then he and I need to get to the range so we can get acquainted with each other (S was always the one to shoot him when we went to the range together). He only has 2 "safeties" whereas Woodrow has 3, so that'll take some getting used to. SIGH. I feel so sad, but this is what I need to do so that I have one less thing to worry about this year when it comes time for annual qualification.
So that's the love story of Bella and Woodrow.
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