Attribution: Petr Kratochvil, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
By Bill Stokes
Kickass, the doorstop dog, assures the keeper that it is never too late to try to clean up the record so long as the final tally has not been inked in.
So, here are the basic facts on a matter that has been haunting the keeper with solitary guilt for the past 80 years:
A farm boy walking a country road on a winter day carrying his .22 rifle with no special target in mind, cresting the hill by Peterson’s swamp to see a magnificent snowy owl perched on a nearby fence post; and with no more thought than goes into scratching an itch, shooting the owl to see it topple down into the snow, immediately motionless and dead.
Maybe there was a subsequent moment of showing the dead owl to family members, but there is no recollection of either approval or regret expressed by anyone, nor any memory of the dead owl’s disposal.
And while it did not immediately burst forth as a regrettable, dumb thing to have done, there was apparently a seed of remorse that germinated to become a memory weed that could not be eliminated and demanded regular maintenance.
Over the many years of shooting countless birds and critters in the “sport” of hunting, the recollection of the reflexive shooting of the snowy owl would surface uninvited and have to be put down privately yet once again.
A public confession at this late date is not likely to ease the snowy owl guilt burden but it seems worth a try.
Sorry, snowy owl. If I thoughtlessly cut your life short you ended up sharing another long one with me.
