Margaret and I were at our local pet store this weekend buying some feeder mice for the snakes. Being a nice May day, there were quite a few folks out in Ye Olde Burien Towne enjoying the weather, including a medium—er, sorry, Starbucks, that’s Grande—sized horde of children with parents in tow in the pet store itself. A small tactical nuclear family was crowding the aisle where the rodents reside, Mom kind of squashed in the far corner while the kids crowded the plexiglas front of the cage, oohing and ahhing at the snake snacks contained therein. Dad had propped himself up against a shelf at the head of the aisle, making jokes and generally messing with his kids’ minds in just that sort of way I tend to admire: “How’d you like to be the guy who has to shave those hairless rats every day?” he asked of one of his sons. I smiled to myself as I watched #1 Son turn and look up quizzically at his father. Soon enough the kid had lost interest and wandered off into another part of the store. Dad turned to watch him go, and as he did, I saw the 9 millimeter handgun holstered on his left hip.

I should preface anything that follows with the statement that I am, in general, pro gun rights. I think that, in a democratic society, stronger limits on legal gun possession tend to restrict the possession of firearms by those least likely to misuse them. (Which is not to say that I wouldn’t support tougher rules regarding the training that one must undergo in order to legally own a firearm.) I also suspect that there’s a really good chance the drafters of the Second Amendment intended that citizens have the means at their disposal to violently overthrow their own government if ever it became necessary in the name of protecting our freedom. Problem is, that’s not the way the passage actually reads, and I tend to believe in divining the intent of the Founders through their legally-binding documents, not tea leaves, goat entrails or other forms of constitutional augury. Also, given the size and lethal sophistication of Federal military forces these days, to insure true parity by a citizen militia would require the legalization of civilian-owned armaments to horrendously destructive as to make the existence of any form of local law enforcement—from beat cop to National Guard—an act of suicide on the part of its members. So it seems obvious that a certain amount of restriction must be exercised when choosing who may own what sorts of weapons.

But handguns, shotguns, rifles, even so-called “assault rifles” that are made illegal simply because they look more badass than their big-game-hunting counterparts (an act tantamount to classifying a Hummer H2 as a “tank” because it’s encrusted with sorta-kinda-militaryish-looking plastic carbuncles)….I think that the right to keep such weapons should, by and large, be preserved. The “and bear” part takes a little more convincing. I don’t necessarily want to restrict the right of a citizen, lawfully licensed to own a handgun, from being able to carry it on his or her belt in public. That being said, I also don’t want to restrict the constitutionally-protected right of a citizen to, say, write fiction extolling the virtues of rape, incest and child molestation. In either case, I’d simply prefer that the individual in question choose not to.

Whenever some unexpected tragedy of mass murder occurs here in these United States, we are bound to hear from both sides of the aisle in the endless debate over gun ownership in America. The anti-gun folks will staunchly pretend that anyone who wants a gun can’t in all likelihood go out and find one with little or no trouble, legal or otherwise, no matter what kinds of laws are passed; and the pro-gun side will act as though a college/church/Safeway full of individuals armed to the teeth would somehow, against all understanding of human nature, be statistically safer than one without. The actual answer is a lot more nuanced, and a whole holy crapload harder to legislate. A level-headed, well-trained, emotionally-healthy citizen with a firearm might very well be a godsend in such a situation. And if there were any way to instantly and accurately distinguish the level-headed, well-trained, emotionally-healthy people brandishing guns from the paranoid, whacked-out testosterone-poisoned wingnuts, then this would not be the hot-button issue that it currently is.

Personally, I don’t feel like I should have to exercise such intense and potentially life-changing deliberation concerning the mental, emotional and moral stability of my fellow Man every time I enter a public place. Particularly if the only real way to be sure I was protecting my own safety in the face of such ambiguity would be to either a) never leave my home or b) start packin’ heat myself every time I run out for a quart of milk or a can of mice.

To be honest, there’s something a little unnerving about a person who wants to walk down the street with a singular killing device like a Glock strapped to his side. In fact, one has the distinct impression that “unnerving”—or, to put it another way, “intimidation”—is exactly what this guy was hoping to achieve in doing so. It’s a form of pre-one-upmanship, a way of taking all advantage away from the other guy, whoever and under whatever circumstances that may be. “I am prepared to blow a generously-sized hole in you if you make me feel sufficiently threatened, and I have the tool to accomplish this objective not four inches from my dominant hand, so you’d best watch everything you do and say in my presence.” It feels….well, like a form of cheating, I guess. This guy has decided to end the conflict before it starts, by so totally overbalancing the situation in his favor. It’s like deciding to wear a suit covered with millions of spines dipped in shellfish toxin out in public; nobody will have any problem so long as they keep their distance. It’s not your fault if they happen to accidentally brush against you.

I think I chose my reaction to this spectacle quite well; I elected to ignore him. But at the same time—and please don’t imagine for one moment that I am anything but ashamed of this—I have to admit that the more alligatory bits of my brain entertained another possible course of action. Namely, to slip in behind him and shove the knife clipped inside my pocket into the base of his neck, thereby proving the singular futility of attempting to hold back life-altering tragedy through the ostentatious display of lethal force.

But even setting aside the legal, moral and basic human decency questions, all told it was probably better that I didn’t. No doubt his wife would have pulled a Walther from her purse and blown me away.