Capt. Charlie
Moderator Emeritus
When I was around 12, my dad bought a Crossman .22 pellet rifle for me. I shot just about any wild critter that moved, but never got up close and personal with the aftermath.
One day I shot what turned out to be a rare songbird (a Scarlet Tanager, I think?) and walked up to look at it because of the brilliant color.
What I saw made me sick inside, not so much in sympathy for the bird, but in the utter waste of such a beautiful thing, for no other purpose than to serve my own meanness.
It was worse because my dad just looked and was silent for awhile. It would've been easier if he'd just chewed my backside.
I hunted for years after that, but the kill was a much more somber thing.
One day I shot what turned out to be a rare songbird (a Scarlet Tanager, I think?) and walked up to look at it because of the brilliant color.
What I saw made me sick inside, not so much in sympathy for the bird, but in the utter waste of such a beautiful thing, for no other purpose than to serve my own meanness.
It was worse because my dad just looked and was silent for awhile. It would've been easier if he'd just chewed my backside.
I hunted for years after that, but the kill was a much more somber thing.