The Meadow 163 Pheasant Hunting Thomas Christopher I don’t like hunting. I don’t like shooting the shotgun, or even the twenty-two. I don’t like the blast it makes or the way it kicks so hard against my shoulder. I like the BB gun with the soft “poot” and the tiny BB that can’t kill much except a small bird or a mouse. I don’t want to kill anything anyway. One time I hit a sparrow. It fell to the ground and its little breast was heaving and one wing was flapping. I couldn’t bear to look at it, so I ran and got my brother who shot it in the head. It’s late November, close to Thanksgiving. We are out walking in a harvested cornfield behind our acreage. This is the only part of hunting I like. Being outdoors and walking through the fields with my dad and my brother. I like the cold air in my lungs and the crunching sound of the shredded cornhusks under my boots. The sky is pale blue with a few fuzzy white clouds. Eventually, we pass through a thin stand of trees and into a meadow of tall grass. This is the part I hate. There are always pheasants in the meadow. I’m nervous to the point of being nauseous. It’s the anticipation. It’s like going through a haunted house. You know the bloody chainsaw killer is waiting to scare you, but you just don’t know when. A burst of pheasants erupts in front of me, and I duck. I drop to the ground as if a bomb has gone off. I cover my ears as my brother blasts. Then my dad’s double barrel blasts and then I hear, “Damn it. Missed.” I look up and see my dad glaring at me. “Get up,” he says. “Why do we even bring him?” my brother says. “So he can learn,” my dad snaps. I pick up my gun and get to my feet. “Can I just walk without shooting?” I ask.
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