It's official, I'm a murderer. I suppose I should backtrack a bit and explain. I should also tell you that I live in the middle of a cornfield. Squirrels, rabbits, deer, ducks, raccoons, opossums (why is there an o?) and birds of all kinds are a plenty in my hometown. So I was innocently heading to my credit union with my six-year-old (who has a memory like Rainman) when a bird flew right into my windshield. The impact was a sickening crunch and I cringed, waiting for a shower of feathers to cascade onto my hood. But there was nothing so I was relieved and told myself the blackbird would be fine after a few extra-strength Excedrin.
This is where my son comes in. He had the forethought to glance behind us (not an easy feat considering the medieval car seat I make him wear out of fear of idiots texting while driving but that's a whole other blog post). "You killed that bird," he exclaims. I peek in the rear view mirror, not excited about witnessing my destruction, and verify that there is indeed one very dead blackbird in the middle of the road. Apparently he had gotten a bit airborne from the impact and it had taken a moment for him to come back to earth.
Of course my son felt the need to tell everyone we came into contact with for the next twenty-four hours that I killed a bird. I would pipe up with, "But I had the right of way!" I still feel quite terrible about it and would surely send a basket of condolence worms if only I knew his families address.
"We shall avenge our brother by crapping on Stephanie's Jeep anytime she drives anywhere for the rest of her life!"
Have you ever hit an animal and felt incredibly guilty about it?