Dear Mr. (Mrs?) Dead Birdie,

Please understand that I didn't mean it. It's just, you see, it was so warm out today. My dog, Chase, doesn't get to go out and play much during the winter because it's so cold, and his little heart only lives to play fetch. So, when it's warm, we inhabit the backyard in which you built your home and I hit tennis balls from one side of the yard to the next with a 'bat' that is really an old ax handle and he chases them and brings them back time and time again.

You must know that I do not hit the ball with every attempt I make to do so. In fact, I wouldn't blame you for laughing at the amount of times I do, in fact, miss. And I don't blame you for thinking it was safe to leave your nest and fly off after I had missed three times in a row. How were you to know I would actually show some resemblance of skill that one time?

I watched fatefully as the tennis ball flew into the air at the speed of light, noticing ever so slightly something leaving from the tree. At first I thought you were a leaf, until I realized there were no leaves on that tree...because it's winter...and then I knew--that was it for you. You spiraled to your resting place on the ground. Chase was overly confused on whether to fetch you or the ball.

Please know that I have never done such a thing before. I have never hit one of you with a car or a gun or anything else. Although I will admit to having a kitty, Lovey Boy, who was very good at catching your kind (they taunted him, though. you were not a taunter). And as my last final act of kindness to you, I did not let Sierra and Kimber out to destroy you and instead called my neighbor to come get you for a proper garbage can burial (because as sorry as I am for you, I do not wish to catch bird flu and he has more years on him than I).

So, Rest in Peace Birdie. May your next life be longer.


Sincerely,
Via