Murder Most Fowl.

When Mark and I were little, we would play “goose hunter.” I would run around the yard honking and flapping my arms while he would shoot at me with a baseball bat. I’d fall to the ground with my tongue hanging from the side of my mouth making the “ehhhh” death sound. Then I’d get up and we’d do it again.

As we got older, my dad would take us out hunting with him. He mostly bagged mallards and pintails and an occasional goose. He shot a swan once and we ate it. Never in my life have I heard of someone eating swan—unless it was King Ludwig.

When I reached the age of twelve, it was customary for any male in my family to enroll in a Hunter’s Safety Course. I did so, not knowing or caring why. My graduation present from the course was a .410 gauge shotgun. It was the baby of the shotgun family and the best-suited for my wimpy frame. I did not look forward to using it.

That winter, my Grandpa took me out to the marshes where we sat freezing in a duck blind. He was picking off ducks right and left while I couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. After a while, an avocet landed in the water in font of us. He told me to shoot it and I did. I killed it. Grandpa hooted with glee and told me to go pick it up so I trudged through the muddy water to retrieve my kill and never hunted again.

Mark continued to hunt for a few years, but his interests shifted to painting ducks and geese instead. He did, however, keep their body parts scattered around his room for reference.

To this day, I like the taste of duck if someone prepares it for me—lacquered in a plum glaze or served with a cherry compote. Mom is even a master of the floured and pan-fried breast. But if I ever have to look into a garbage can full of beaks, feet and feathers again, it won’t be a day too soon.