Did I set out under the Texas sun with my rifle in hand into the countryside? Was my rifle loaded and its safety off? Did I gaze at the beauty of the flying ducks before ever raising my gun? Were their coats of feathers like green silk shimmering in the light of day? Did they move with wonderful grace? Did I finally raise my rifle as another flock hovered across the sky? Did I love them as I fired the buckshot into their guts? Did I feel it strange: I killing animals; my hound an animal; I capable of harming my hound; my hound capable of harming me; a perfect trust between us? Did I stare long and hard at the bodies of the three ducks I had killed, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible? Did my hound seem callous in his contented frolicking?

Did I find out-of-towners in a campsite tent that night as I went back to my car? Did I leave three duck heads at their tent door in the night, later to laugh at the horror they would feel when they awoke? Did I hope they would discover the duck heads while fearful night still enveloped them?

You know what I would like to do?

What?

Hunt sharks with a spear.

What do you mean?

You know. SCUBA diving with a metal spear. To kill sharks.

It's a lot safer with a fishing line.

Yeah, but I want to give the sharks a chance. If I'm out to kill them, I ought to at least give them that.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Doesn't it sound right to you?

Yes. Somehow it does, though I don't know why.