I can’t stand this. Not because I’m overly fond of birds (they creep me out, and Ray answers my pleas to protect the bird of peace with the argument that dove are crappy parents — or wait, maybe that’s quail) but because I can’t stand guns, and just the sight of the shotgun in its case made me shudder when I noticed it by the kitchen door a couple hours ago. I couldn’t sleep, after passing out last night with Sophie at, um, 8:30. (Hey, it was a long week.)

Ray was at the ready in a camo tee shirt and khaki shorts. But he looked a little sheepish.

“Annabelle was giving me a hard time last night,” he explained. “You know, last year, when she asked me, ‘Why are you shooting dove?’ I got away with saying, ‘Oh, because it’s dove hunting season!’

“This year, that didn’t work.”

I hid my smile. Nonchalance works best in these situations, I’ve learned after almost 13 years of marriage. Maybe this will be the poor birdies’ last season of Ray. I used to argue that he wasn’t such a hot shot, so it really didn’t matter. Then he got pretty good.

But maybe this will be his last dove hunting trip. Maybe his plans to train Annabelle to follow in his gruesome hunter’s footsteps have been foiled from the start. I won’t say a word, but I hope so.