Did I hear that right? I asked myself. Doves? No, I must have misunderstood what he was saying. Wait. He did say it. Doves. He said doves.
He, being a right wing conservative, spewing opinions into the atmosphere, infused with hatred and insecurities. The rage is so palpable, I can taste it. A toxic metallic wedge of sour lemon, laced with stale cigarette smoke. A foul brew.
He tells me he has been on the annual hunt for doves. Yes, apparently dove hunting is a sport. I’m mortified, having raised pet doves as a child. To this day, I find them to be the sweetest, most docile creatures I’ve ever known.
If he could read my eyes, he would see the brimstone and daggers hailing in his direction. I offer him a coffee with an insincere smile. Walking to the kitchen, I take a deep breath. Pouring the coffee, my hand shakes. When I get back, he has his phone out.
Holding the phone in front of my face, he tells me proudly ,“Here’s the haul. We got 48 in total.”
Upon closer inspection, I see a small heap of dead birds, their creamy delicate wings spattered with droplets of blood. Lifeless bodies tragically gunned down from their earthly paradise.
He says in a hearty voice, “yup, we cooked ‘em up on Sunday. “
I ask to be polite, or simply because I have no idea how else to respond, “um, how did you cook them?”
His hearty response, “we grilled a bunch on the BBQ” There’s not much meat on ‘em, but I had 28 with a beer. Delicious.”
Lost Art of Mystery 