It’s always been my fantastical dream to one day own an expansive bird sanctuary somewhere in a remote coastal area, possibly in Northern California, possibly in Oregon, where I would keep and breed large birds like ducks, geese, swans, turkeys, peacocks, ostriches, emus, cassowaries, pheasants and the like. I would own many acres of land with a natural, self-cycling pond and a small marshland. From my cozy home, I would write novels by the fireplace and concerti by the baby grand (always a glass of scotch on the rocks nearby), and on my breaks I would take strolls through my sanctuary and feed the birds.
I see the news headlines now:
“Famous Author and Composer Mauled Dead by Pet Swans”
Yes, I will be killed by my own beloved favorite animals (yes, I know ducks are my favorite animals; swans and geese take a close 2nd and 3rd). It will be a sordid and tragic irony befitting an artist. Sales in my music will double. My brother will produce the biographical film and make millions. The Swan-Death scene will be the most gruesome depiction in cinema history. The Oscar will follow.
My house will be willed to my wife, but my sanctuary will be willed to the birds themselves.
But really, the birds will be innocent. They were merely performing a duty: helping me fulfill a destiny. It was their obligation and there was simply no other choice: there was no better way for me to die.