This only happened metaphorically.

This bird, he had gotten himself into a bad situation. Somehow, when I opened the door, he flew inside, into the house. Attempting to gain quick relief from his new confines, he quickly mistook the window over the sink for the sky.

I heard a thud, then the soft flutter of feathers. Then another, smaller thud, then again, back to the sound of his wings in flight. By the third failed attempt at exit, I was able to scoop him into my hands.

His brown wings pumped ineffectively into my palms and he tried to bite me, but without teeth, it just felt like a small pinch of a less-than-vicious beak.

I scurried to the open door, out from under the carport, and into the sunshine. Then, I paused before opening my fingers, just to look at his feathery little head. The thought ran through my mind to cherish this moment, for it is rare to have the warm body of a wild bird struggling to be free of your grip, squirming around in your hands. It is rare to be close to such an ephemeral little woodland spirit.

So, I stood still for a brief time, looking down at him, studying the colors of the trees in his feathers. Then I let him go, and watched desperately as he took to flight, free, free, free!

Little did I know you were standing there behind me with your gun. Before he had time to disappear into the deciduous canopy, you shot him down.

The craziest part is that, when I asked you why you had just done such a thing, you denied having done it.