Just for the hell of it.

Three boys (maybe 8 to 10 years old) came into the yard with a b-b gun. Taking turns. Shooting at songbirds. I asked them what they were doing. “Killing birds,” one of ‘em said. “Why?” I asked. “Because there’s nothing else to kill,” he said. I suggested that the boys think about it. “Those birds are mothers and fathers,” I said. “They have babies to feed.” I reminded the boys that they had mothers and fathers, too. They’d hate to see them killed, right? “What if I shot your dog?” I asked. “How’d you feel?” Later, I saw the boys again. They thought they had shot and killed a bird. And they were busily looking for the body – so they could confirm the kill. “Do your parents know you’re out shooting birds?” I asked. I wondered. Who bought the b-b gun? I asked one of the boys if his parents were home. “I think so,” he said. I asked him to get his mom or dad – that I’d like to talk to ’em. He returned in a little while. “They’re resting,” he said. “Get ‘em up,” I said. “Tell them that Jim Broede wants to talk to ‘em. Now.” The dad came to the door. “Your son is shooting birds, just for the hell of it,” I said. “I think that’s wrong.” The father promised to talk to his kid about it. “I don’t want them killing birds,” he said. “They’re only supposed to be taking target practice.” A couple years ago, I saw youngsters clubbing chipmunks to death. Just for the hell of it. And I saw an adult motorist intentionally run over a turtle. Just for the hell of it --Jim Broede