When I was about 12, gophers were gnawing at a crab-apple tree at the edge of our yard. My dad tried flooding, traps, gassing/smoking, poisons, you name it. Nothing worked.
So my dad decides he's got another idea. Without bothering to inform anyone else of this glorious plan, he gets up at o-dark-thirty to execute his mission. When his .303 British Enfield went off, my ass flew about 6 inches off the mattress! Sounded like field artillery... In any event, the gopher was never heard from again. Either the bullet got it, the shockwave killed it, or the damn thing is STILL running!