Killing Woodies  I'm in the yard at home in Oak Valley between the two maple trees where the sandbox used to be. I have a shotgun, and am shooting ducks. I don't have or use any ammunition. I point my gun and the ducks and pull the trigger. There is a "click" sound of the firing pin moving in the absence of a shell. I have a specific plan of attack: I want to kill some ducks, but I don't want to maim any. I want to do this quickly and discreetly. I maim about five ducks or birds. They're all still living and sit on tree branches, clinging to their lives. I know that someone has informed the police that this was occurring. I gather up the dead and dying ducks and put them in the garbage can in back of the house. There is a phone call for me: it is the police. I talk with a male officer. I explain my actions. Knowing there are limits for each species of duck taken, I tell the officer over the phone that I've killed two wooducks, one mallard, one teal, etc, all of which are legal numbers, even though I know I've really shot a bunch of wooducks. The officer asks me about my friend Nat Miller, whom I know was with me when I was hunting. I try to explain to the officer that because Nat is from out-of-state, he doesn't need a license for hunting, just a valid drivers license and a key. The officer asks me questions about this, and I long-windedly make up answers to excuse our actions. The officer finally says, "Shine up your keys." He means he is coming over to look at Nat's key to validate the story.