last sunday, a pheasant...

last sunday, a pheasant flew into the window as i sat correcting research papers. at first, i thought it was the blast from a shotgun hitting the side of the house, but as i peered out the upstairs window i could see her lying on the ground on her back. she twitched once, and then no more.

immediately, i called my brother. there was just no way i was going to bring my poor pathetic vegetarian self to do the deed if it should need to be done. i suppose i could have snapped her neck if i really needed to, but was afraid of how it might have affected me to know i killed an animal as lovely as a pheasant. i called my brother, then i went outside.

i crouched down in front of her and, reaching forward, touched her wing. no movement. i stroked her soft feathers with my hands, and could already feel little warmth. her neck looked crooked, tilted unnaturally to one side, her eyes were halfway closed and had the glazed look of death. as i sat crouched in the cold of the morning, i reflected on the loss of my dog tiger. i recalled how i had looked at tiger, how i had been almost unable to recognize him as a dead dog, how similarly lifelike this bird seemed to me, as if she would suddenly arise, shake her feathers, take one fearful look at me, and fly away to lay eggs and raise chicks and outfox the fox.

but she never did. and i continued to crouch -- dazed, as if i myself had hit the window -- until my brother arrived and pronounced reality.

"she's dead..."