On shooting pigeons

 

Chris was twelve he started begging his mom and me to take him to the supermarket to buy a BB gun. After weeks, we relented, and I took him. Once he got it, he begged me to let him aim at the pigeons roosting next door. It was not just a matter of pride in his new possession; Chris wanted to help me carry on a long war with the pigeons. Since their droppings damaged the roof and stained the house paint, I had been putting a pitch-like preparation along the eves to keep them from alighting there. Chris was for a final solution. If it weren't against the law, I probably would have welcomed his plan and offer. As it was, Chris had to settle for shooting pigeons in his father's barn in the country and telling me afterwards what an accurate marksman he was.

 

Not long after this, Chris came home from school and found a wounded pigeon futilely flapping his wings on the driveway pavement. He called the Audubon Society for advice, and found that there was no place he could take the injured bird for recuperation. They told him to keep the bird warm and feed it; it would either get well and fly away or weaken and die.

  
     Chris wrapped the pigeon in a towel, set him in the spring afternoon sunlight, and began making a combination cradle and cage for him with lumber scraps and chicken wire. He put some water in the cage and found some bird seed for his patient to eat. That night Chris put an electric pad under the towel.  

Saturday morning Chris woke to find his pigeon doing well. He went back downstairs to watch TV and fell asleep. At eleven, his mom, working in the office near the deck where the pigeon was, heard a feeble scratching noise and went to investigate. The heating pad below and the high sun were roasting the bird. She ran to get Chris who brought the pigeon into the shade and got fresh water for him. Moments later there was another feeble scratching sound and his mom called Chris back. The pigeon had drowned in the drinking water.

 

Chris sadly dug a grave under the giant fir in the backyard, fashioned a small cross from the wood not used on his cage, and conducted a short funeral for his friend.

 

The next day Chris was off to spend Sunday with his dad on the ranch. He came back full of triumph: he had spent part of the day practicing his aim with the rifle. He had shot himself five barn pigeons.