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The day my father gave me a BB gun was my twelfth birthday, and I almost couldn't help jumping up and down when I saw what it was.
With a smile, he put his hand on my shoulder and led me outside. He set up cans and showed me how to shoot---first loading the gun, pumping it a few times, aiming, and, finally, firing.
It was strange how that bird landed on top of the middle can. Holding the gun, I glanced at Dad, eyes filled with mischievous questioning.
"No," he intoned. "I don't ever want to see you killing anything. That's not why I bought you this gun."
He frowned grimly, but when the bird flew away, he squeezed my arm and nodded toward the cans.
I think he was afraid that I'd learn what real power felt like.
Whatever. It was okay with me because I figured I'd find plenty of other targets.
"Hey, Mike!" I yelled to my friend upon making one of my greatest discoveries. "Check this out." I aimed at the top of the telephone pole.
"What're you doin'?" he asked.
I
fired, and the BB smacked the top of the pole, hitting that little ceramic cylinder that the phone lines are hooked to, and causing a loud "DING" to ring out.
"Cool!" Mike said.
I smiled like the king of the world---a smile that grew even wider when Mike couldn't hit the same target. The neat thing was that no matter how many times you shot those things they never broke. Then again, maybe that's why it got boring.
A few months later, I found myself walking down the street, gun in hand, searching for new targets. I stopped by a telephone pole, popping off a few shots with nothing better to do.
Suddenly, a bird swooped down and landed on the wire. It was a pigeon, and it cooed and shuffled its footing, completely oblivious to my watchful eye.
Here I was, a bored kid, holding a BB gun, and a bird standing right there in front of me---and no one around to tell my dad. It was so perfect, I figured it was a sign from God.
I aimed straight at the pigeon, held my breath, and squeezed slowly upon the trigger. But I hesitated. I was about to kill a bird, a concept that felt at one moment queazy, at another exciting.
The exciting part won.
I fired. The bird dropped like a rock, one wing flopping behind as it fell. The bushes obscured its impact, but I heard it thump into the dirt.
Before lowering the gun, I realized what I'd done---I'd killed my first animal. I should've ran to my friend Mike's house and dragged him back to see the dead pigeon. But instead I whispered, "Oh no," and charged into the brush.
My stomach was tied in knots, and I prayed, "Oh God, please don't let it be dead."
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