The last time that I shot at an animal was also the only time. I was either five or six years old, I can't remember which, but it had to be somewhere in those years because I remember the house where it happened. It was a crummy little rent house on Bennett Street in Stillwater, OK. The lessees of the house were my father, his best friend, and his girlfriend at the time who would eventually become my stepmother. I had been left alone to shoot empty Coors beer cans in the backyard with the BB gun that my father had bought for me on an occasion for which I am not certain. For most boys growing up in Oklahoma, the procurement of their first gun is a monumental event, but I can't recall ever even asking for one, though I may have, it is hard to say.
My father, being recently divorced from my mother had been going through a number of identity crises, and recently had settled on outdoorsman. It was a good enough fit, he had grown a mustache and tended to look good in jeans and cowboy boots, plaid shirts, and goose down vests. He had met someone through his girlfriend who was an actual hunter and probably decided that he should give it a go as well. His metamorphosis from small-town optometrist to weekend game hunter was somewhat comical and a little sad at times. Sure he owned a jeep, but to see him hoist a shotgun up to his shoulder and take aim was about as believable as watching a stage actor or a model on a photo shoot attempt the same motion. It was not without its grace, but there was nothing about it that felt particularly lethal.
My father, the hunter was preceded by my father, the bohemian folksinger and followed by my father, the sailor. Later incarnations would include the windsurfer, the tennis pro, the angler, the country-clubber, the woodworker, and so on. Each of these hobbies requiring the purchasing of thousands of dollars worth of "gear" that he would devote the better part of my visiting weekends scouting out. Sailing was my favorite because I actually got to go sailing which was mostly peaceful and of terrible interest to me. But right now, he was a hunter. And being the son of a self-interested father meant that I was, too.
Game hunting required a lot of equipment. In particular, since no one in our family had ever hunted anything more than a great place to buy home furnishings, my father was starting from scratch. We had to purchase various guns and ammunition, clothes for hunting when it was cold and clothes for hunting when it was wet. We bought decoys that looked like mallard ducks and small wooden whistle-like devices that when correctly manipulated, mimicked their calls. The shopping for these items seemed never ending and in the outdoors store I would wander off to the section with the camping equipment and marvel at the freeze dried food selections, browsing their bags as though I were preparing to order my dinner. Although I remember spending a lot of time with my father shopping for hunting gear, I only remember going hunting with him once.
We had planned on being up very early in the morning, before sunrise. Presumably so we could catch the birds unaware before they got their breakfasts and shuffled off to work. But we overslept. I remember my father hurrying around our house gathering up all of the necessary instruments that we would need to hunt down and kill... doves, I think it was. We bundled ourselves in thick, puffy jackets and jumped in the jeep heading towards a ranch that one of my father's friends owned. When we got there it was nearly 8:00 AM and even though I knew nothing about hunting, I could tell by the expression that my father was wearing that we were too late. We walked the ranch covering acre after acre not seeing whatever it was we were supposed to be there to kill and I could tell my father was frustrated. Every once in a while, I would ask him a question and he would remind me that I had to be quiet.
"The birds can scare just by hearing the dry grass under our feet," he explained. So talking was out of the question.
After what seemed like several hours, we stopped at a little pond to drink some water from our canteens and eat some summer sausage and cheese that we had prepared the night before. The sun was beating down on me and I could feel sweat rolling down various parts of my body underneath all of my clothes. We sat quietly and ate, and I wondered if it might be alright to talk but then decided not to risk it.
It was my father who broke the silence. "I think maybe we should start heading back. Not many birds out here today."
I nodded my head not knowing if I was allowed to speak.
"Grab your things, let's go," he said, and he picked up his shotgun and I picked up the little pack with the food and threw it over my shoulder.
Just then, I saw my father spring into action and before I could turn around, I heard the explosion that was the discharge of his gun. I turned to look at what he was shooting and saw a bird falling from the sky. It was funny, though - like it was not falling the right way. It was falling slower than I had expected and was much larger as well.
"Is that a dove?" I asked.
"I don't think so," my father said.
A visible tightness drew across his face as we went to see what he had shot. When we got there we saw a large, brown-feathered bird struggling on the red clay soil. It had not died yet and I wondered what he might be thinking. Flying along one minute and struck to the ground, mortally wounded the next. I started to cry and turned away from the whole scene when I was surprised by the sound of another blast from the shotgun. I turned toward my father and I must have had a look on my face that demanded an explanation because he immediately told me, "I had to put it out of its misery."
I turned away again and searched the ground for something else to focus on, hoping that I would see something that would take my mind off of the way I felt in that moment. I felt terrible for the bird and I was terrified to know what plans my father had for it now that it was dead. I resolved not to look back in the direction of the massacre but soon broke my own promise as curiosity got the best of me. When I scanned the ground where I had last seen our prey, I noticed only small mound of earth - no blood, no feathers. My father had buried the bird. Once again the look on my face must have warranted a response because my father said, "I wasn't supposed to shoot that bird. It was a golden eagle. Don't tell anybody that we shot it, I think it might be a federal offense."
I am not sure how much time passed between that day and the day that I stood aiming at a squirrel running the wire in the back yard at my father's rent house. But even as I took aim and proceeded to squeeze the trigger of my BB gun, I knew what I was doing was wrong. I may have nicked the squirrel or I may have missed him completely, but I am fairly certain that it was not a fatal shot because he scampered away down the wire and into a neighboring pecan tree fairly quickly and without much effort. When I looked around to see if anyone had been watching, I saw my father. The look on his face was one of disappointment and I knew without speaking that I had no good excuse. He came and took the gun from my hands and I offered no struggle.
"You are only supposed to shoot at the cans," he said and he left me there in the backyard as he escorted the gun to the house.
I picked up a basketball that was lying in the yard and sizing up the hoop through my tears, I began to shoot. I was crying because I had let my father down, I was crying because I was thinking about the bird, and I was crying because I wanted someone to make sense of it all for me.
I never shot another gun and I am pretty sure that my father hasn't either. Our attempts at being wildlife hunters was a colossal disaster, at best. I have never been able to understand how some fathers and sons get such a great bonding experience out of hunting down and killing animals. But, there are a lot of things I don't understand.
One thing that I learned about my father and myself was the fact that if you give either of us a gun and enough time, we will eventually shoot at something that we shouldn't.
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