Boring anecdote time.
When I was in the Army, close to getting out, I bought a used, battered, beaten Inglis Mark I* hi-power in 9m/m. All my friends, big 1911 fans, taunted me about this. I shot the heck out of that already well-worn pistol. I like the way it felt, though the sights were tiny, the manual safety hard to use and barrel nearly a smoothbore, the blueing quite gone, and rust spots in places.
After I got out of the Army, I worked in a gas station for a bit (only a few months), the boss allowed me to carry, so I carried the only pistol I had (One of two guns, the other an ancient Lee Enfield). It was a comforting presence on my hip, under my shirt or coat.
One night, after closing (somewhere around 2 or 3 a.m.) a group of teens gathered outside the door and began hollering, and banging on the door, cursing, etc. I told them we were closed, they said they wanted alcohol. I told them I would call the police, they said they 'were not afraid no man'. I told them, again, I would call the police, and as I told them a second time, I reached around my hip and exposed the gun, putting my hand on it. It was still holstered, they were still outside. Their eyes bugged out of their heads. I wish I could show a picture, and I wish there was a stopwatch faste enough to record how fast they bugged out of the area.
I don't remember all the details of that night. How many of them. How long they pounded on the door. All that they said. I remember being very concerned. Not scared. And I remember the feeling of the grip of the Hi Power in my hand, and the wave of comfort, near serenity, that came over me, knowing. Just knowing. I don't remember all the rest of that night, or where my other hand was, what clothes I was wearing, exactly. I remember that feeling.
I carried that battered, rusted, reblued, resighted, rebarreled, retriggered, respringed thing until the gunsmith told me that the guide rails were going (they were getting rounded, he showed me). That gun rattled like heck when you shook it, even if you picked it up gently, it'd rattle.
I don't know how much I've shot the poor gun, tens of thousands, at least. It never did like hollowpoints, so I carried FMJs in it.
I took that gun to be consigned today, as I'm trying to afford a carry piece besides my battered old cz, such as a Glock.
I feel like I've turned traitor to an old and loyal friend.
I've spent a few hours crying.
God willing, I'm going to the gun shop tomorrow at noon and taking it back.
I might not shoot it much anymore, but it's been loyal and kind to me. The least I can do is to be loyal back. They'll charge a fee. I'll gladly pay it, to have my friend back.