My late Dad was a magnificent shot. One time when we were hunting in the Low Veld and had stopped for a smoke, we heard the yelp of a wild dog, and a troop of impala came bounding over the tall grass. Opposite us, three hundred yards off, was a stony ridge like a wall, six feet high. You would think those buck would avoid it, but no, they went straight at it. One after another, without pausing or swerving, they leaped over it. They cleared it by three or four feet. I tell you, friend, it was a beautiful sight.
By the time the first two impala were over the ridge, late Dad was ready, and as the next one leaped, Dad got him. In midair. Same with the next one, and the next, and the next. And the next. And the next. That was six buck, one after another.
Do you know, the wild dogs chasing those buck didn't stop for the impala that late Dad had killed. They didn't even react to the shots. They just followed one particular buck that they had marked, and we saw them pull it down a couple of minutes later. You've got to hand it to Nature; she knows what she'