Bill Heavey and I regularly exchange nasty e-mails; he is a querulous and testy fellow who does not always write in English, but what the hell, he’s a colleague and I am obliged to answer. Anyway, on a particularly bad morning when two of his five remaining hairs came out in the brush he told me about a big deer he had killed with a bow after a long stalk, and compared this with my shooting animals thousands of yards distant. The implication was that he was a real hunter and I was a mere technician who is carried by his equipment. Now Bill is an amusing writer, but he is the small dust of the balance, and I don’t care an assful of ashes if he thinks poorly of me. However, his testy e-mail caused me to reflect on the past season and see just how I took what I did.