Twenty feet away on a desert rock the green bottle awaited its demise. Scattered glass around the rock bore proof of my father's glass shattering prowess. The demonstration was over, now it was my turn. For a ten-year-old the toy was heavy. I assumed the toy stance aligning the sites with the bottle; I pulled the trigger. The toy exploded, the recoil jerked my arm straight up. A wave of energy vibrated every molecule in my body, yes! Yes! Now this was a real toy. A sense of power overwhelmed me. I was no longer a puny being looking up at the world in silence. I could now proclaim my presence with a bang. The bottle waited patiently. I aimed to the right of the bottle and slightly down grounding myself I fired. I hit the rock. The bottle stared back at me in defiance; I compensated once more for the recoil, and fired. The bottle tittered but remained standing. Eleven shots later the bottle gave up the ghost.
One week later my father brought home my long awaited toy, a German Berno air rifle. This toy was not as impressive as his toy, and the bang left much to be desired. What this toy lacked in bang, it made up in accuracy. I could now be stealth, and accurate. Loading the toy was a chore; one had to pump the barrel. Toy food came in two varieties, small lead pellets, or a fine plumed dart. Plumed toy food was Bernos preferred food. The darts were expensive, and retrieval of the dart became imperative. Accuracy now became a question of cheep toy food. Soon bored with static targets, moving ones were next. The only moving targets I could find were alive. Birds, cats, and other assorted life forms.
Encouraged by my father, birds, especially small sparrows, became my first targets. Our chef would marinate the birds, skew them and roast them on an open fire. My father would place the entire bird in his mouth chew it, saver the juices, and spit out the bony carcass. With this kind of encouragement, the sparrow population count in our woods began to drop. Cats became great sport, hunting cats required stealth, and patience. Safari hat on I would stalk them, like some big game hunter in Africa. The chef had no recipe for cat, so cat was never on the menu.
Across from our house a tall structure was being erected. Standing atop this structure were two workmen. Sitting on the edge of the pool my feet dangling in the water, Berno at my side loaded and ready for action I contemplated my boredom. Jeering from above suddenly interrupted my meditations. Looking up I saw the two workmen waiving their hands and whistling. Looking to the left I saw my sister approaching in a bikini. Calmly I picked up Berno, and aimed at the dancing barbarian high up in the scaffolding, I fired. I heard a whimpering sound, the barbaric dance stopped and the men started to make their way down the scaffolding. My prized dart was returning to me, how fortuitous. Having to disturb my father's afternoon siesta in order for him to confront my deed was not cheering. I sent the maid to awaken him.
I proceeded to the front door, and awaited my father. My father soon arrived, I looked up and saw annoyance in his eyes, and I looked down. The inevitable knock on the door happened. The butler opened the door. The barbarians stood there, they suddenly became very animated, pointing at me and screaming, your son has shot me. The man opened his shirt, and two inches down from his navel; my plumage betrayed me. There was no denying this deed. My father reached over and plucked the evidence from is stomach. He handed me the dart, reached into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting a fifty-toman note, he handed it to the barbarian. The barbarian smiled took the note and looked at me, he pointed at another spot on his stomach and smiled. The butler shut the door. My father looked at me and smiled, " shooting barbarians can be expensive, please stick to the birds." He turned and, went back to finish his siesta.
It was a gloomy afternoon, it was siesta time once more, and all were asleep. The house and the woods were silent. The silence seemed Erie and foreboding. I was sitting at a table on the porch, having just cleaned all of Bernos parts I was in the process of reassembling him. A crow flew closely over my head, and perched itself on a tall tree close to the pool. The bird let out a single scream shattering the silence. I opened a new box of pellets and loaded Berno, aiming at the crow I fired. I heard a thud and saw a feather ruffle. The crow did not move or speak. I reloaded Berno, and fired once more, another thud, and another ruffling of feathers, and still no fall. I walked over to the tree, and looked up at this immortal bird. I was adamant; this bird would die this day. I pumped endless pellets in to this crow that would not die. My stock of Berno food was approaching depletion. As I paused to ponder this dilemma I heard a rustling of leaves, looking up I saw the now mortal bird come crashing through the branches. The crow lay at my feet, head cocked to one side it looked at me.
The eye was unblinking and clear; I looked into the eye. For the first time in my life I felt a silent inner pain. The eye was questioning, why have you done this to me it said. My pain was intense a tear formed in my eyes. Why had I done this? Why? The eye looked at me; I could see and feel the inner pain. The eye suddenly went cold and, died. Berno dropped from my hands forever.