I'm my own Grandpa.

My Grandpa Palmer Hall was a farmer and a laborer. He worked at an electrical plant during the day and ran his farm whenever he wasn't at work. That means chores in the morning, chores in the afternoon, taking care of the crops before and after dinner. Then came the final chores before he turned in for the night and started the whole thing over the next day.

My memories are of the retired Grandpa, the one who ditched the day job and replaced it with being a lawnmower mechanic that worked out of his garage. All the farmers who fixed their own cars and tractors would still take their lawnmowers to my Grandpa to work his magic on. He called it "heart surgery" and we would be his assistants. He always knew how to involve a kid without them getting bored and always made sure we felt important.

He never quit his farm work though and a big part of that was pest control. Canning time meant pouring the old canned slop down a gopher hole and shooting the slime covered gopher that tried to escape the murky sludge - with a BB gun of course. You had to be at least nine before you could start learning how to shoot a real gun. Another good use for the BB gun was thinning the bat population as they flew from the chimney late at night.

There were rabid dogs, pesky cats, sick cows and old horses. Not to mention too many spring kittens. The farmer had to rise to the task and do what had to be done. When we dismantled the old chimney, all the bats were thrown into a 5 gallon bucket and ground up with a shovel. Horses, cows and dogs could be shot. Extra kittens? That same 5 gallon bucket will do the trick. Just add a lid and some water. Don't you dare question my Grandpa's love for his cats though. The same man took a pitchfork to a mean old cat that came on his property and started attacking his cats. Finished him off with a baseball bat.

Today I found the first baby bird of the season on our deck. We have a nest on our roof. Every year we get babies and eggs on the deck. We were going to remove the nest but obviously weren't fast enough. Last year I took the first baby to the wildlife rescue station in St. Paul. The second baby I hesitated over and after I fed it a worm I accidentally left it out in the sun too long. Stupid, I know, but I was just trying to make sure it was warm.

This year I knew the routine. It probably will die, even at the rescue center. It's just too small and too young. And I didn't want to drive 40 minutes to alleviate my conscience. So I channeled my Grandpa and did what needed to be done. I asked Stan if we should:

1. Squish it.
2. Freeze it to death.

He voted on:

3. Burying it alive.

I couldn't toss the bird in the garbage or bury it alive. Might as well just leave it on the deck to suffer and slowly die. The whole point was to put it out of its misery. That left freezing or squishing. I hate being cold, so I voted for good old number one: squishing.

I didn't want to feel it squish, so I needed something heavy. I found the sledgehammer in the garage. (Really, I think I could end it right here.) I made sure I hit the head first, so it hopefully wouldn't feel much pain, and I did it. I killed the baby bird. And man, did that thing become nothing but liquid with two quick taps of the hammer*.

And me? I actually felt I did the right thing. It was going to die. This way it did it minus the suffering. I just hope I don't have to do it again.

*The bird was wrapped in a few layers of a plastic Target bag. I bet they won't print that on their "ways you can use this bag" ideas.