The truth is, birds aren't my favorite of creatures because they are unpredictable. I do appreciate, though, the nurturing motherbird: she braves the elements to provide a suitable nest for her babes; she sits on her eggs waiting patiently for their birth; she scrounges for worms to provide food. I appreciate how pretty birds flit past my window, signing out to one another across my yard.
My only beef with birds is their unpredictable pooping and spreading of germs. I'm sure you recall the bird flu scare of 2005. I retract my previous statements about truly disliking birds.
The real meat and potatoes of this argument comes down to one thing: In my opinion, my husband's hobbies are disturbing. Killing innocent animals for the sport of it is mean.
This being the case you can imagine how I felt when I exited my car on Sunday evening to find a dead goose, lifeless, limp, lying on its poor pathetic stomach on my garage floor. I screamed. "Holy Smokes!" (The kids were in the car). I then pressed my body up against the car, creating as much distance between me and the bird as I could; I side stepped my way past the deceased Canadian feathered creature. The next morning when I headed out to the car it scared me three more times. I screamed and my heart jumped into my throat three more times.
As I sped away from my house I telephoned the murdering huntsman responsible for the garaged goosed. I inquired, "Do you have big plans after work tonight, hunny?" He replied, "No, why what's up?" "The GOOSE IS UP! You GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT MANGY GOOSE!" Defeathered, decapitated, deboned. Problem solved.
Until.... this morning when I headed into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and found the cleaver he used to perform the revolting task in my sink, awaiting the wash. Staring at me. It talked to me (in my head) like it was a Stephen King creation, "I gutted a goose last night, I gutted a goose."
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