The Defiant Hunter

We lived in a small community nestled between wide open spaces and corn fields.  Our oversized backyard had an abundance of pine trees, Aspen, Maples, flowers, bunnies and birds; it was our own little sanctuary.  We loved how peaceful it was here.  So did our neighbors.  We came home many times and would find them standing on the sidewalk that bordered the west side of our back yard, just enjoying the beauty of everything in bloom.  More than once a neighbor would tell me, “Your yard should be on the cover of Home and Gardens magazine.”  That always made me feel good.  My husband, Brad, and I had worked very hard over a three year period to landscape this place ourselves.  My hands still showed the scars and callouses.

There were four bird feeders in the yard and two birdhouses, all strategically placed where they could be seen from the deck, sunroom, or any window on the backside of the house.  We had the usual robins and sparrows, but also the more colorful swallows, Yellow Finch, Bluebirds, Starlings, Blue Jays, Woodpeckers and Hummingbirds.  All of them had their own “spot” they favored for eating.  The smaller birds took turns on the feeders and the larger birds stayed on the ground picking up everything that fell.  Part of what we enjoyed was seeing new birds show up, then grabbing our bird book to find out their identity.  Like I said, it was our own little sanctuary; this is what I imagined the garden of Eden looking like.

I woke before dawn this particular day because of an appointment I had.  Brad was sound asleep.  I grabbed my clothes and quietly left the bedroom, closing the door behind me so I didn’t disturb him.  I was sure I would be back before he got up.  Now that he was semi-retired, he didn’t set the alarm any more.  All was silent as I left the house.

I got home an hour later, just in time I thought, to put on coffee.  Everything was still quiet and I sneaked down the hallway to see if Brad was still sleeping.  The bedroom door was open so I walked in expecting to see him up.  The bed was empty so I checked our bathroom.  Also empty.  Well, what the heck, I thought.  I went to the other bedroom, his office, living room, and still no Brad. 

“Brad!” I called.  No answer.  I ran downstairs to see if he was on the treadmill, but the basement was dark and silent.

Panic started creeping into my mind as I imagined something terrible happening to him, but what?  I went out to the sunroom to see if he was in the back yard.  The windows were all open, and a nice breeze was coming through the screens.  Before I saw him, I heard a “POP” and then his voice, “You little sons of bitches!”

Brad was on the deck outside the sunroom, sitting on a small stool, with nothing on but his green boxer shorts and balancing the high-powered pellet gun on the railing.  His tousled hair told me he had not been up long.  I followed the direction he had the gun aimed, and below the bird feeder, were at least a dozen Gackles laying on the ground, dead.

“What are you doing!” I raised my voice in disbelief.

Without even looking at me, Brad had his finger ready to pull the trigger again.  “Those damn blackbirds are knocking my Yellow Finch off the feeder!  Those sons of bitches, I’ll kill the bastards!”

“Brad, stop it!”  I said.  “Those aren’t blackbirds, they are Gackles and they will leave if you yell at them.  You don’t have to shoot them!”  I quickly looked around the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching.  It was illegal to fire a high-powered gun in town, even if it was a pellet gun.

“I’m tired of those bastards picking on my small birds,” he said defiantly.  He stood up and I took in the sight of him: naked except for those worn out green boxers, scrawny frame with a salt and pepper ruffled head of hair and a five day beard he was just starting to grow out again.

“Damn it Brad,” I said frustrated.  “Get in here!  Someone’s going to see you and think there’s some lunatic out here with a real gun!  Then we’ll really be in some shit!  What are you thinking?  Get some clothes on!  Someone will think you’re a pervert!”

Brad maintaining his defiant look, came in the house. “I don’t care what anyone thinks!”

“Well I do!  I don’t want any police showing up at our door!”  I said, matching wills with him.  “Get some clothes on and will you please go clean up the dead birds?”

“No, I’m going to leave them on the ground so the others can see them.  Maybe it will scare off those damn blackbirds.”

“Brad, birds don’t care.  They don’t think about that.  Those carcasses will just rot and smell.”

“I’m not picking them up!”  he said, and like a little kid, he set down the gun and walked back to the bedroom.

I looked out in the yard, at all the Gackles laying on the ground; a sparrow and yellow finch were back at the bird feeders eating.  I grabbed a garbage bag, a pair of rubber gloves and went outside to clean up the birds.  As I picked up each lifeless bird and dropped it into the bag, I couldn't help but visualize a neighbor watching the morning's event and Brad crouching behind the deck railing -- with a gun.  A laugh escaped my lips.  Everyone in the neighborhood knows Brad is a pushover, a big huggable bear, a softy.  This was so out of character for him. 

I thought about Brad's father and how he was a lovable, crusty old thing as he got older.  I was in for the same journey with Brad.  He was more like his father every day, but his lovable side would always be there protecting the smaller birds.  He hated bullies, even if they were birds.

So much for our sanctuary.