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We live in a hunting community, where the pheasants are
thicker than Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds.
Dead, wild animals adorn the walls of nearly every home and commercial
establishment within a 250 mile radius. Beasts with four feet, fins, or
feathers are all considered “trophies.” And little boys grow up longing for the
day they will bag their own beast and hang it on their wall.
thicker than Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds.
Dead, wild animals adorn the walls of nearly every home and commercial
establishment within a 250 mile radius. Beasts with four feet, fins, or
feathers are all considered “trophies.” And little boys grow up longing for the
day they will bag their own beast and hang it on their wall.
I have three of those little boys, and as such, no moving
creature on our acreage is safe. Armed with all manner of weapon, sling shot,
homemade bow and occasionally the bb gun, the boys prowl through trees and
grass hoping to eliminate the pests that dig holes in our yard, eat our garden
and haplessly present themselves as targets.
creature on our acreage is safe. Armed with all manner of weapon, sling shot,
homemade bow and occasionally the bb gun, the boys prowl through trees and
grass hoping to eliminate the pests that dig holes in our yard, eat our garden
and haplessly present themselves as targets.
Last week as they were on the prowl, a young robin fell
victim to the little band of hunters. Having been instructed by their father
not to shoot song birds, they were immediately alarmed and began to assess the
bird’s health.
victim to the little band of hunters. Having been instructed by their father
not to shoot song birds, they were immediately alarmed and began to assess the
bird’s health.
Lo and behold, in the vigorous hunt the bird’s leg had been
severed at the “knee” or whatever you call it on a bird. Amazingly he was still
alive.
severed at the “knee” or whatever you call it on a bird. Amazingly he was still
alive.
Seeing his suffering, the boys dropped their weapons, and
immediately went into rescue mode. I first noticed the carnage when my three
little animal EMTs came pounding up the deck stairs with our neighbor boy
toting the bird-gurney—a cardboard box taped shut at the top. They ran into the
house, grabbed a screwdriver and before I could ask questions they proceeded to
stab15 holes in the top of the box for ventilation.
immediately went into rescue mode. I first noticed the carnage when my three
little animal EMTs came pounding up the deck stairs with our neighbor boy
toting the bird-gurney—a cardboard box taped shut at the top. They ran into the
house, grabbed a screwdriver and before I could ask questions they proceeded to
stab15 holes in the top of the box for ventilation.
Exploding with excitement they relayed the story, as all
good hunters do.
good hunters do.
Then they opened the box. There, was the traumatized, one-and-a-half-legged
bird.
bird.
As I peered into the box, I noticed a loose bird leg sliding around in the corner of the box. Naturally I
inquired, “What is that!?”
inquired, “What is that!?”
“It’s the leg from a black bird that was already dead! We’re
going to put it on the robin… because a little hop is better than not being
able to walk at all.”
going to put it on the robin… because a little hop is better than not being
able to walk at all.”
A little hop…? “How
are you going to do that?” I probed.
are you going to do that?” I probed.
The four boys looked at each other, then at me and
questioned, “Glue?…or maybe tape? Can you sew it, Mom?” I confessed I could
not.
questioned, “Glue?…or maybe tape? Can you sew it, Mom?” I confessed I could
not.
My little hunting party, turned EMTs, were now attempting to
craft a prosthesis for their prey turned patient.
craft a prosthesis for their prey turned patient.
To hasten his recovery the little crew retrieved two vacant
birdhouses from the garage and nailed them together making a sort of aviary
condo. (see picture).
birdhouses from the garage and nailed them together making a sort of aviary
condo. (see picture).
They relocated the bird to its new surroundings despite the
squawking. My youngest stroked its little head and the squawking ceased (out of
fear rather than comfort I suspect.) Noting the bird’s silence, my youngest whispered,
“See, he trusts me.”
squawking. My youngest stroked its little head and the squawking ceased (out of
fear rather than comfort I suspect.) Noting the bird’s silence, my youngest whispered,
“See, he trusts me.”
Oh certainly!
I am sad to report that before the scheduled prosthetic
surgery, the bird passed. Upon hearing of his passing, my middle boy lamented,
“I knew we should have fed him
something else!”
surgery, the bird passed. Upon hearing of his passing, my middle boy lamented,
“I knew we should have fed him
something else!”
Alas, we rejoice that he is well and whole in Heaven. And I personally
rejoice to know that my little hunters do
have a little heart.
This post is linked up to The MOB Society’s “Let’s Hear it for the Boys!” Thursdays.
hilarious!!
I thought so too : )
Oh, that's awesome! You are so good at telling stories, Shauna.
Glad you got a chuckle, Anita. I had to stifle mine : ) Never a dull moment!
I"m very impressed by those boys and their compassion:) You've got some great story material in their antics.