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The pigeon lay there with blood streaming from its beak, feathers large and small scattered about. I poked it with the gun barrel but it remained still. Reluctantly, I reached out and rolled it over, but its head drooped lifelessly to the side.
After burying it, I hurried home, stashed my BB gun in the closet and went to hide in my room.
When my dad got home that evening, I forced myself to go downstairs so he wouldn't think anything was wrong, but, the instant he looked at me, I'd have sworn he knew. Yet he put an arm around me and said,
"Hey son, how was your day?"
"Um, okay." I told him.
"That's all," he frowned, "just okay?"
I could feel my face tingling. "Yeah, just okay." And, trying to make it at least halfway believable, I shrugged.
He nodded, hand still resting on my shoulder. "Well," he said, "it's almost dinner time. Let's go set the table."
I was dead silent as I laid the plates out. I felt as though every time I turned around, Dad was looking at me, but whenever I stole a glance in his direction, he seemed simply to be paying attention to collecting forks and arranging glasses.
After Dad poured me some milk, I barely uttered a "thank you" as he took his seat. Watching him, I figured if I could just make it through dinner, I'd be okay.
Mom gave us each a potato and uncovered the main dish in the center of the table. It was chicken.
I almost barfed on my plate.
"Son," Dad began, "do you want to say grace?"
I looked at my mom, then at my dad, and, just before bursting into tears, I pushed my chair back and ran to my room.
I had my head buried in my pillow when I felt Dad rubbing my back. My tears slowly faded, and I was able to lift my head. He didn't say anything, but just rested his hand upon me and waited with a soft look in his eye.
"I..." my voice cracked and I cleared my throat. "I shot a bird today."
"Oh?" my father replied, his expression unchanging.
"Yeah. It was a pigeon. On the telephone line. I killed it."
Dad paused before asking, "And how did it feel?"
"It felt... Awful," I answered and looked down.
"I'm sure it did. That's one of the reasons I said you shouldn't shoot birds."
I glanced at him, "Are you gonna punish me?"
"Hmm," he replied with his finger on his lips. "You misused your BB gun, and you disobeyed me. What you need is to always remember how bad it felt to kill that poor bird."
I turned my head down again, but he put a finger on my chin and lifted until I met his gaze. "Somehow," he told me. "I think you will." And, slapping me on the rear, he said, "Now lets go get dinner."
Little did I know as I slid from the bed that my father was right---I would remember killing that bird---along with a lot of other things---the rest of my life.
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