At first, we welcomed the hawk. Majestic, balletic, and charitable, Hank became a member of our household. In exchange for keeping the alley that he calls his kingdom vermin-free, I would lay gifts at his altar—a commissioned portrait, for example, or a disabled larger animal he was otherwise unable to kill.
It was a symbiotic relationship in the tradition of Nixon and Kissinger, Lennon and McCartney, Joey and me. My days were brightest when Hank would fly by, wearing the bowtie and monocle I gave him for Erev Yom Kippur, I helping him with his molting plumage or he offering assistance with my taxes. As with any strong friendship, ours was built on shared interests, respect, and admiration. Our relationship was mutually beneficial—until Hank, taking a page from Hugo Chavez, stopped respecting private property.
One day, out of the blue, the damn hawk started shitting everywhere. He would eat a whole raccoon, or one of the infants I would cripple, and then blast the entire thing out his ass and onto our window. And it wasn't just my home he treated with no regard; soon Hank's altar was also drenched in hawk feces.
That beast is a scumbag, a liar. Boorish and repugnant, I cannot imagine another animal with such disregard for people or property. More a jive turkey than a hawk, Hank is no longer welcome in my home or on my window sill. I hope he eats a plague-ridden ferret, catches on fire, and asphyxiates on an American flag. Stupid hawk.
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