CORRECTION

A column Tuesday on Page 1B gave incorrect information about I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby's testimony before a grand jury. According to The New York Times, Libby, Vice President Dick Cheney's former chief of staff, testified that he was authorized by his superiors to give reporters classified information about Iraq's weapons capability.

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Accident my eye. Or rather, Harry Whittington's eye.

If you believe it was just an accident that Vice President Dick Cheney shot his hunting companion last weekend, you obviously have never seen "The Godfather" movies.

Just as surely as a fish wrapped in a bulletproof vest means "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes," that shotgun blast to Whittington's face was meant to convey that I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby had better bite his tongue and forget about testifying against Cheney, his former boss, in the Valerie Plame spy case.

What'll it be, Scooter: a case of amnesia or lead poisoning?

The woman who owns the ranch on which the shooting occurred said Whittington shot a bird, went to retrieve it and then snuck up on Cheney.

The vice president, she said, was shooting at a covey of quail when he hit the tall, orange-vest-wearing lawyer. Oy.

Libby, Cheney's former chief of staff, recently told a grand jury that leaking Plame's identity as a spy was authorized by his superiors who were angered by Plame's husband's public criticism of the war in Iraq.

That revelation had many questioning how low this administration would go to quash dissent.

Now we know.

A vice president who'll shoot an ally to get across his message of omerta -- that's mobspeak for "hush up" -- may be considered a national disgrace by some.

Not by me. I embrace the prospect of a lead-slingin' veep. Think of the impact Cheney's shot heard 'round the world will have on America's diplomatic efforts. When obstinate countries declare their unwillingness to negotiate with Secretary of State Condi Rice, all we have to do is roll out Deadeye Dick.

The prospect of having to sit across the table from Cheney, in orange vest, Elmer Fudd hat and a chaw of Red Man in his cheek, will, for instance, make Iran give up its plans to develop plutonium.

Shooting a hunting companion in the face, intentionally or not, is not Dickie Boy's worst gun-related transgression. Remember a few years ago when he went hunting at an exclusive resort in Pennsylvania and reportedly shot 70 ducks and pheasant?

That was "hunting" in the way that raising fish in a barrel and then tossing in a baited line is fishing. Conservationists objected because the birds, raised in pens, didn't know that, after a lifetime of being cared for and fed, they must suddenly flee for their lives.

Imagine a couple of the domesticated pheasants lounging around Pennsylvania's Rolling Rock club, awaiting dinner.

Phred: I say, old bean. This is the life. They keep us caged up and just bring us three squares a day. No flying south for us.

Philip: I'll say. It doesn't get any better than this. They were a little tardy with the food yesterday, but here they come now. Good. I'm hungry ... POW!

Phred: Hey! What the ... are they shooting at us? Well, I'll just walk right over there and give that baldheaded one with the glasses a piece of my -- Ugggghhhhhh. He got me.

Not very sporting, eh?

Cheney's fascination with hunting is puzzling because when he had a chance to take up arms for his country during the Vietnam War, he sought every deferment under the sun.

Of course, ducks and quail don't detonate roadside bombs.

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