I’m going to admit to a blood lust. I like to kill and I love to hate.
But only one thing in particular: starlings. Stinking, shitting, filthy starlings.
I stalk them in my bathrobe. They flutter and twitter about the eaves of my home and crap all over my porch. They tweet in nails-on-chalkboard tones while I sip my morning coffee and I slip up on them with a twenty and blast them while they sit. Sometimes I get out the twelve . . . really whatever is handy. The twelve sits upstairs where I can load fast and shoot from an open window. The twenty by the sliding glass door downstairs. It is work done in slippers on the front lawn, robe flapping. It’s good not to have neighbors.
A challenging wingshot, but I will take whatever shot there is. The dogs twist in circles, mistaking an uncased gun and a creeping owner for September partridge steppes. Little matter, for when I fell one of the stink birds with a load of sixes, they rush in and fetch, only to spit the mangled bird out.
I kill the parents first and then get a ladder out and pull four screeching nestlings out to drown in the creek while the setters dance happily.
A fella has got to do something with summer.