Last weekend — the start of dove season — I went out and got my first hunting license. The next day, I bagged my very first dove with a single-shot .410.
Impressive, right? Yes, well I only got one, so don’t get too excited.
This would not be so strange if you didn’t know that I take injured or disfigured birds to wildlife rehabilitation centers when they’re found dying in the middle of the sidewalk.
That’s after I give them food and water and some ridiculous name like Angelica.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t cry when one of my dogs ate an innocent baby bird after tossing it around like a rag doll.
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