“What was that?” my partner said as we busied around our shop.

“I don’t know. Sounded like something hit the wall.” I continued folding shirts.

She stepped outside the opened doorway and sure enough, a bird had knocked himself senseless after bombing directly into the exterior wall, perhaps attracted to the yellow, blue, and green signs hanging there.

“Oh, look at the poor little bird,” she said as she leaned over it like Florence Nightingale. “It can’t move. It can’t raise its wings.”

She was devastated. “We can’t just leave him out there,” she adamantly insisted as I continued what I was doing inside, showing little or no real concern.

My response was, “Why not?”

That seemed terribly cold and cruel to her, but my decision was based on my own safety and the lessons of my youth. An injured, undomesticated animal (insect, fowl, snake, and any other living creature except man and even possibly man) could be dangerous when injured. “Don’t touch it,” was the rule. I wasn’t going to take the chance that it might be infected. Neither was she.

“I’ll call Jeff,” she said. I heard her telling her husband what had happened to the poor little fellow and within minutes, he arrived.

He lovingly scooped up the bird (or I guess he scooped it up) and held it for us to see. By then, I had peeped out the door. It was, indeed, still alive and I did feel sorry for it once it looked me in the eyes. It’s ugly little gray wings were lying flat to this chest. In Jeff’s hands, it was safe.

He identified the bird by its species, as I feigned interest and placed it behind the shop to heal itself and eventually fly away. I was sure a vulture was smiling.

Some are born with a genetic disposition to protect and revere all creatures, while others put out rice for the birds to eat so they will swell and die. Creative lovers wouldn’t set a mouse trap to kill the mouse, but had rather capture it alive and give it freedom in a nearby field to find its way back to me. I am all for killing those suckers.

I will avoid running over all creatures, except snakes. Only on a few occasions have I had the pleasure of running over a live snake (I’ve double killed a few). My fear of driving over one is that it will not die, but be slung underneath the car and work its way into my vehicle.

There was once a man who drove an old farm truck, picked up a guy who was walking to town, and along the way the guy felt something at his feet. He looked down and a snake snuggled on top of his shoe. It had crawled up through a hole in the floorboard.

One time when Guy wasn’t at home, I discovered a snake in my garage, lingering near the basement steps. “Never take your eye off a snake,” I always heard, especially one you want to kill. What good was my eye without a weapon, so I left it alone, dashed inside, grabbed the portable phone, and called my uncle.

By the time he drove from across town, the snake had slithered back outside and disappeared into the brush. All night I visualize that snake twisting though a crevice or worming its way down through the attic and sliding under the covers of the bed.