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hoping for a humane trooper. I had heard many don’t like to discharge their weapons because of the paperwork.
    â€œYeah, but it happens. They come out of nowhere,” he said, repeating the common refrain from anyone who has hit a deer.
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    WE HAVE ALSO RESCUED SOME ANIMALS or tried to anyway. We returned a baby bluebird to the house from which it tumbled, relieved to see the mama still bringing food. A few weeks later we watched the youngsters’ first flights, taught incrementally by their parents until one day they vanished. An empty nest: w hat will it be like when my kids leave ? Another summer the four of us were playing baseball in the back yard. The sunny day revved our endorphins, and even Elliot was kind about Jane’s swinging misses with the bat. As Scott pitched and I played outfield we noticed a hawk circling low and lower over our heads. Its crazy pattern chased us together and set us thinking Alfred Hitchcock. With our eight eyes staring, it crashed straight into the side of the house, just alongside the window of a gable, bounced off and fell to the roof motionless; two thumps.
    â€œWhat the heck?” Elliot asked, his hands shielding his eyes from the glare.
    â€œI don’t know,” replied Scott. “Maybe he planned on going through the window.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with that birdie?” Jane asked.
    â€œI don’t know, sweetie. Maybe it saw the sky’s reflection on the glass and got confused,” I said.
    Many small birds have crashed into our paned windows over the years, even though we’ve made window art to deflect them. Usually, after a bewildered rest they autopilot away. But I was already anticipating the
damage control Scott and I could deploy about this large dead flyer that had not aimed for the window.
    To our surprise, the hawk resurrected. It flew off and returned, circling haphazardly and, with all our eyes glued, it dove straight into the side of the same dormer, knocking itself again into stillness on the slanted roof.
    â€œOh no,” cried Elliot. “Not again.”
    â€œThere is definitely something wrong with that bird,” I said.
    We watched for a long time, fully expecting Lazarus to fly again.
    â€œWill he be alright again, Daddy?” Jane asked.
    â€œMaybe Janie, but I think we’ll have to leave him alone for awhile and give him some time.”
    â€œShouldn’t we try to help him?” Elliot asked.
    â€œI don’t know much about birds, El, and that one may be sick in a way that we don’t want to touch it,” I said.
    West Nile virus had been reported among birds in the area. Later I heard a theory that birds commit suicide in this manner when unwell. That is certainly how this appeared, but I generally curb my anthropomorphic tendencies.
    â€œHe may need a good long rest,” I said, giving Scott the nod which means the deep sleep, and we better think fast how to handle this.
    â€œI hope he’ll be okay,” Elliot said. “Here, Mom, catch.” He threw me the baseball.
    Our continuing glances did not work any miracles. We headed in for lunch and planned a funeral for the bird should it fail to fly again. Sure enough, the next day it remained, stiffening, until our caretaker George climbed a tall ladder to retrieve it with gloved hands. He dug a hole in the tall grass at the edge of our yard, and we buried the beautiful bird.
    â€œYou were a good birdie, but now you’re dead,” Jane said, her voice sad, her lip pouting, a dramatic little mourner.
    â€œI hope you had a good life,” Elliot rejoined. “I wish you could’ve lived longer.”

    Jane sang a made-up-on-the-spot song, Elliot sprinkled a handful of torn grass over the mound, and that was that. No tears. No existential angst. But the bird funeral proved popular. When next a smaller bird hit a window and didn’t revive we staged another, more elaborate burial. We took turns