Have one’s faithful ghillie ( colloq.— an outdoor valet in the highlands) perform both perchance, thus avoiding risk of unnecessary wrist- or other bodily injuries… his custom leather-lined wheelbarrow serves as both silent shooting brake (permitting the incumbent, be he tyro or season’d Nimrod to make full use of his reticle-etched Zeiss hand optics, and maintain full conetrol of the unsheathed muzzle of his lincoln-lacquered piece, or ice-fishing paraphernalia, etc) and recover of the slain wisp-o’-the-woods or leviathan of the Stygian deep thereafter, thus permitting the by-now triumphant sportsman to indulge in a little impromptu field photography perhaps, or chat with the ladies who may have been following proceedings intently from a discrete distant behind, or to catch up with one’s latest podcast-de-l’heure, via one’s calfskin- or shagreen-clad portable micro-communicator of choice, with a freshly made coffee of choice drawn from the same holster, now pressed into service as faithful retainer of his Swaine Adeney Racing Green Thermos?
It’s a tough one, I know…
Whatever, whither, when and from whence a Man may draw his ‘Svenko suppressor’ is his business, and his alone…
‘Maxim’ be damned!