There’s a tendency—especially among hunters—to feel a little uncomfortable about the guns we own but don’t use, as if a shotgun that isn’t carried in the field is somehow failing its purpose. Or worse, that we’re failing it.

I like to think that January has a way of softening that self-accusation.  Because when the season is over, and the pressure to choose is gone, you realize something important: not every gun is meant to earn its place through miles walked or birds taken. Some earn it by staying exactly where they are.

Some shotguns live in the safe because they’re tied to a person rather than a pursuit. A father’s gun. A grandfather’s gun. A piece that carries more memory than practicality. You don’t leave those behind because they don’t work—you leave them behind because they already have... they’ve done their job.

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