I grew up in a small family business. Around 1960, we moved from 137 South Albany to a 3 story building at 2330 West Van Buren Street in Chicago (see July 26, 2022). I worked there on weekends and during the summer months. One of our employees had graced the office with a monstrous glass cage full of happy canaries. Maybe a dozen or more. They were cute. They provided wonderful choruses of chirps and tweets. We fed them each day. Cleaned their cage often. Fresh water. And sometimes let one fly around the office – only to lure him (her?) back with a special treat.

We were not in a great neighborhood and from time to time, there would be damage to a window or door. It was when I was in college that serious problems began. During one summer, we were burglarized three times. The last time was the worst. We came in and found the office ransacked. Papers all over. Ripped. Typewriters destroyed. Excrement on walls. Urine on the floor. And. . . . each one of the little birds had been murdered. Thrown against the wall. Stomped on. Dismembered. And we all cried and shared our grief with employees who stood in the office. It was then I told my father that from that day forward – I would be spending nights in the office. With a 12 gauge shotgun and a few other things. I wanted to be there – when they came in. I still remember my rage. I wanted to do to “them” what they had done. And so much more. My father – wonderful man that he was – patiently calmed my spirit and convinced me to “not” do that. And fortunately – we were never “hit” again. . . . .

What do we do with the people who do things like that? Destruction of property (I think of those who smash and grab small family businesses). Sure – it was an office. And yes – they were “just” little birds – but they were murdered. Would a shotgun have been the answer? What would you do? What if it was your home?