I killed a robin.....

Yep, it’s official. I’m an animal killer…..again. I have gone about 11 years since I’ve killed a living thing (besides mosquitoes, a mouse, and various other flying pests). First it was a squirrel in the Intrepid, now it’s a robin in my Hyundai.

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning with the moon roof open heading to my moms house to stake out our annual ‘parade spot’ in my old town. I was using the back way because the county continually still finds humor in ripping up roads that have been ripped up the previous 2 seasons simply because ‘they had leftover money’. So, I took 60th (Hwy K for those of us who better understand the Letter Hwy’s in the county) all the way to Bristol, then Hwy D to Hwy AH to 195th Avenue.

I’m cruising along at about 62 mph or so and enjoying the county scenery, when out of the blue, a robin, who was ALSO enjoying the lovely day swooping and spiraling, until my grill happened to go THWAP into its cute little robin head.

Yes, that’s what happened. I saw him coming towards the road and brushed it off because I see it all the time, but they are so adept at switching directions and are usually aware of the surroundings of moving beings that they usually swoop up just in time…..well, unfortunately not this time.

It swooped and it hit. In the split second, after gasping and realizing what happened, listening to the staccato bumping noises the body proceeded to make in the undercarriage of my Hyundai, I quickly looked in the rear view mirror to see about 27 feathers exploding into the air in a comic-book-like arch around the robin’s tiny little (thankfully limp) body.

I’m sure it probably didn’t know what hit it and at least was enjoying a beautiful flight in the early morning during its demise.

Hey, such is the circle of life. Last time it was a squirrel spinning out of control behind the car, tail flailing, this time it is a robin exploding. Well, I’d still say 11 years is a pretty good track record.

On a side note, this whole scenario brings back a fantastic quote from “My Cousin Vinnie” in which Marisa Tomei tells Joe Pesci when he asks her if his pants were OK that he was wearing to go deer hunting, to which she replied after he had blasted a huge hole in the side of its ‘precious little deara’s head’, whether or not the ‘F-ing thing gave a F**k of what kinda pants he was wearing?’

OK, that short A.D.D. moment past, what’s a gal to do when a robin can’t learn to fly straight?