Why I Broke One of My 'Cardinal' Rules

All that week I worked in the garden, my gun by my side, my dog banished to the house. I weeded and waited, eager for this nightmare to end. The bird continued bombarding the windows, but never positioned himself for a proper shot.

At the end of the week, he hit a bedroom window, then darted to a well-placed tree limb. I raised the gun, cocked it, and fired. The little red demon, Cardinalis cardinalis, fluttered to earth.

A wave of relief washed over me followed by another of disbelief. I'd actually hit a tiny target from 60 feet. I felt an urge to beat my breast and howl in triumph. I was a convert, a born-again predator.

Then 60-plus years of culture kicked in. My knees grew wobbly, tears fell on the gun's fine wood. What had I done?

I left my prey where he had fallen. I stashed the gun in a little-used closet and mourned the demented bird and the parts of me that had died with him. I had lost another comfort zone of self-righteousness, another "death and taxes" truth.

Cameron lives in Goshen, N.Y.

© 2007