My Last Kill

One Christmas, when I was eight, my present was a Daisy Red Rider BB gun. After I woke up that morning, I was so excited that I could hardly wait for my Dad to load it with the shiny copper projectiles. I would now be able to join the legion of those who hunt and kill innocent birds and animals.

Of course, at that time, my only thought was to run into our backyard and start target practice. My Dad showed me how to properly hold and shoot the rifle. He was a veteran of World War II and owned rifles and shotguns that he fired off every New Years' Eve at midnight. This was always the highpoint of my holiday season and I always fantasized about when I would be old enough to do the same

I can’t recall the first victim of my hunting safaris but I do remember the rush of excitement that would follow upon killing my prey. I'd take careful aim and pull the trigger. If the bird was lucky, I would miss and they would live another day. However, I soon developed the skills of a marksman, and missed targets were few and far between. The years that followed getting my first gun were filled with limp trophies of lifeless birds that I would proudly present to my father after each kill. Fortunately, there were no cell phones or Facebook back then because my time-line would probably be filled with pics and Facebook live videos of me and my kills.

These escapades continued for years until I purchased my Sheridan Blue Streak multi-pump 20 caliber pneumatic rifle with a 4x scope. This gun was so powerful that six pumps were enough to send a 20 caliber pellet clear through our heavy galvanized garbage cans. The tiny bird who found themselves nearby in my backyard had no chance of escaping my deadly aim. I had become a merciless killer of small birds and it continued for years until the day I happened upon a Robin perched in a tree in the woods of our neighborhood.

As I drew down on the hapless victim, the familiar excitement consumed me. I slowed my breathing, placed my finger upon the trigger, and fired. However, this time my results were different. I knew that I'd hit the target. How could I miss with my skill and the presence of my trusted weapon? But the bird remained perched on the same limb as if oblivious to my accurate aim. I lowered my weapon and approached my target. What I saw next ended my career of being a killer. My shot had struck the Robin in the head and I could see the droplets of blood now dripping from the wound but the kill was instantaneous and it locked the muscles of the bird’s claws in a death grip around the tree branch. He remained perched on the limb as if mocking my murderous mission.

The sight was so sobering that I swore, right then and there, that I'd never kill another animal or bird.