I got my new gun today. When I got home, Maria and I went out into the field, firing it several times. It worked perfectly. It was simple to load and shoot. The next time I had to shoot a sheep or a rabid animal, I would be ready.

When I got home, I locked it away in a very secure place. I had stepped into the other world, and it was lovely. I had to stop and think about my curious and surprising trip to the gun store.

The bottom line is politics and values aside, you cannot live on a farm in the country without having a gun, and people and human criminals are the least of the reasons. Coyotes hole nearby and wake us up. Ferrets and foxes are all over the place. Lambs can die.

Until I moved to our farm in upstate New York, I never thought of having a gun or knew anyone who had one. I was here for one month when a lamb born in a winter blizzard in the dark suddenly cried and shook and bled from the mouth; his mother was frantic.

I called the sheriff, but they said they had too many storm calls to respond to a lamb’s animal problem; the sheriff asked me if I had a gun, and I said no. He said he couldn’t help me; they were trying to save many cows trapped in the snow.

Best to find a gun and kill him, he said.

So I called the large animal vet, and the receptionist said no one could get there during the storm. “Do you have a gun?” the vet asked. No, I was new to this life and never thought I would need one. “You will,” said the vet,  if you love your animals.”

I walked up the road to a neighbor who loaned and loaded his .22 rifle and told me I could keep it until the storm was gone.

I got the message—lesson one. If someone shoots you, they will come. Otherwise, there isn’t much of a 911 system to fall back on. You are expected to handle your trouble unless it is life-threatening.

I made a note to get a gun.

I came back to the barn where I had confined the baby, chased the mother out of the pen (thanks, Rose), and shot the lamb in the back of the head between the ears. It left me shaking and all the wiser.  I cleaned up the blood and thought about calming the upset mother.

As soon as the storm cleared, I bought a .22 rifle and some shells. Last week, I gave it away.

This morning,  I drove to a gun dealer a few miles outside of town, and the store manager, a most courteous and helpful man, came over to talk to me. We were joined immediately by two older men, a volunteer firefighter and a hunter.

They were all gun lovers.

We all got to talking. Two men with Trump hats offered to show me some guns and make sure I knew how to use them. I was afraid they would roll their eyes or laugh about how little I knew about guns. They never did laugh at me. I was grateful for that.

I was there today, I said, because I had to shoot a sheep the other day. After just two shots, the gun jammed, and the sheep shook. She was unconscious and died a minute later. But I knew I needed another weapon.

This was my nightmare come true: I was standing over a dying animal while I tried to figure out why the gun had jammed. Fortunately, my two shots killed her quickly.

The manager and the two men—I guess they often liked to hang around the store—showed me different motels, discussed the ups and downs, and grasped my plea for a simple, basic one with no frills or twists.

I wanted one that made sure I could kill a suffering animal or a rabbit, raccoon, or skunk. I’ve met many since moving up here and shot every one of them. I was instantly comfortable with the men. I wanted and needed the help, and they were happy to offer me some. I learned a lot.

I had used a gun to shoot two vicious roosters, one of whom drew considerable blood from Maria’s leg.”You aren’t the giant rooster on this farm, you mother fucker,” I said, realizing my feeble amounts of testosterone. And I shot him through the heart with a single bullet. It was a John Wayne moment from a man who had little testosterone to spare

My new friends were big and strong men, I would hate to mess with them.

We just clocked. I ended up talking with these men for three hours before I left with the gun. Maria thought I had been in some accident. I had tried to call her, but I couldn’t get through.

It is a gift to be loved and worried about. I wouldn’t wish to be married to someone who didn’t care that I had vanished for three hours.

I liked these men. We talked openly and easily for hours.

We were different people with very different social and political ideas, but it didn’t matter. Each of us had something in common with the other; we had no trouble breaking the ice and keeping it melting.

At the bottom, we were three older men talking about life, politics, and, inevitably, Donald Trump. We all agreed that we were not people who hated people who disagreed. This is a good thing. I joked in a store with hundreds of guns for sale.

We all laughed. The saddest thing I see happening to America is that people have forgotten to laugh. There is hardly any way to connect with other humans if you can’t laugh.

It was important to me to move past our differences and get comfortable with the things that bind us—money, kids, taxes, marriage, health, and a mutual feeling that one should never hate another person for being different or thinking differently.

I laughed.

I almost asked all three if they might consider starting a blog or joining a men’s group, but I didn’t want to push my luck. One said he liked the idea of writing on a blog. He was going to ask his son to help put one together.

Trump, the elephant in many rooms, came up twice. I said I did not need to argue about Trump; we each had to decide for ourselves. One of them asked me if I hated him.

Sometimes, I said, but I don’t hate anyone, really, even him. My problem, I said, is that he is a pathological liar. I was born to people who thought lying was a sin, and lying is a sin, a violation of the Ten Commandments, as well as common decency.

I said I could never entrust anyone who lied so much with the Presidency of the United States.

I said this while I stood in the store talking. I knew they were the kind of people who would want nothing to do with a liar. I would expect to be thrown out in the snow if I lied about me or this gun.

One nodded, and the other two listened quietly. Then we moved on. I said we didn’t need to talk about Trump, and everyone agreed. I felt good about this talk with these good and honest men. We didn’t mention Donald Trump again. I wasn’t trying to change anyone’s mind; I just wanted to get it over and out into the open.

We were having a good time, but we were also different.

I expected to have fun, but I found community and connection. He didn’t know it initially, but one of the men had read A Good Dog, one of my early dog books. He said he loved it.

There were three amiable, helpful, and courteous men there. It was a rare few hours; no wonder it took so long. Conversations with other men like that are critical to me, especially where I live. I felt like John Wayne walking out into the field with my gun on my shoulder pointed upward (I took two safety classes).

Two of us shook hands, and the other slapped each other on the back. It felt genuine and affirming. There is great hope for humanity if only we could step away from our computers and into different homes. Most people are not natural haters.

I believe that will change. There is nowhere to go but up.

The gun worked beautifully for me and then for Maria. It’s ironic, but having a weapon at Bedlam Farm feels good. I will need it, again, and a gain.