I shot a hawk with a bb gun when I was 11 or 12. It didn't kill it, fortunately. It made me sad though, that I would shoot at it. I walked right up to the branch the hawk was sitting on, and it didn't blink or give me any notice. I thought it looked so noble, very beautiful raptor. I'd always loved reading the books about birds of prey. Then I shot it. It flopped to the ground at my feet right away, a fall of about 12 feet. It looked ungainly, all it's majesty was lost then, flopping around on the ground like any dirty animal. It flopped it's way out of my yard, righted itself, and sat in big clump of wild grass, at the edge of where the woods and my yard met, and still did not look at me. I left then, scared and ashamed, back into my house. When I returned a few hours later, the raptor was gone. There was only a matted down hollow in the clump of grass where it'd lain before. I was so relieved that it had flown away. I hoped it wouldn't come back. And that was the end of that.
I later discovered that the bb gun was so weak, it couldn't even break the skin of songbirds. I shot a sparrow at about 5 feet, and watched the bb bounce off of it's chest. Turns out the birds were getting killed from shock. I suppose when they heard that little "PAP!" and felt the bb bounce off them, they figured they should be dead, and just died. Sometimes they wouldn't. One bird just didn't want to die. It flopped onto the ground, and didn't die. I shot it over 30 times, and watched the bb bounce off each time. They were starting to collect up on the depression of it's back, where it made a little pool. A little golden pool of 10 or 15 bbs lay there. I even put the muzzle up against it's head, and pulled the trigger, trying to finish it. The bb just bounced off it's head. Eventually, I think it just got tired of me, and I got tired of it. Plus, I was running out of bbs. I left, and couldn't find it later. I saw some big birds too, which presented easy shots, but after the hawk, I never shot at one of those rare, large birds again. I actually saw a pileated woodpecker. It was enormous, as big or bigger than the hawk, with a bright red crest on it's black and white head. Very beautiful, with a long neck. I just watched it pound this dead tree in the woods behind my yard. It eventually flew away, and I never saw it again. And I didn't feel bad about that.
I stopped shooting birds altogether when I got into my teens. And then I was embarassed of it. I don't know what it was. It did not feel like bloodlust, I hated the sight of blood. But I enjoyed reading hunting stories, the clean, nice kind where they pick up the animals like souvenirs from the woods. No blood, no guts, pretty as a Rockwell painting. And nothing I'd shot bled, so maybe it was a kind of role playing. Maybe one day, I will try going hunting for real. It'll never again be the carnage of my childhood. But I've heard great things about the taste of wild deer and duck. I could use a good steak right now, really.
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