Forgive me reader, for I have sinned.
Despite my earlier vow, I was too weak to rise up and resist the temptation of mere mortal flesh.
So I simply had to run down to the neighborhood pond for another round of dove shooting.
I know, I know, the mortal flesh that I'm talking about just happens to be bacon-wrapped dove breasts that will fit perfectly on my grill. Actually, they're so small, a number of other tasty morsels will fit on the grill as well.
Just so everyone knows, I held true to my original promise and carried along a camera, in the event dove shooting was just as dismal as the first day of the season.
While the frogs were plentiful, they were exceptionally shy around this stranger, eep, eep, eeping as they jumped into the water.
It was windier than the first day, and the dragonflies were noticeably absent from the area. There was a lone damselfly, but it wasn't too keen on flying about in the wind.
The doves had other plans of course.
They were zooming past, riding the 20-mph winds quickly past any hope of a shot I might have.
But there were a few (shall we call them among the destined-to-die?) that sought to buck the winds, leisurely making their way south, past the pond and right into my shot pattern.
My sweet 16 was true to target, dropping bird after bird, either in the water or on the pond's shore.
Surprisingly, I was shooting about 40 percent.
And it's not bad for a bird that has a guidance system that rivals any billion-dollar defense system.
I'm not claiming proficiency at shooting doves.
They are, indeed, masterful at avoiding being shot. They can twist and turn, dip and dazzle any shotgunner out there.
It's always a rule of thumb to plan on shooting several boxes of shells during the course of the dove season, if anyone wants a mess of doves to grill.
It's a delight that someone -- most certainly a dove hunter -- decided to coin that phrase, a mess of doves.
Simply, there's no hard and fast definition of how many that might be.
It's a "quantity of food sufficient for a dish or a single occasion," according to the dictionary I sought out.
Now, don't take that to mean I got skunked. I didn't.
I also didn't come back with an overwhelming supply of dove breasts to put on the grill. (For all you game wardens out there, I got four, but don't tell anyone. And yes, I did have my lifetime hunting license with me. You already know I purchased by HIP stamp, as I was bemoaning that expense in an earlier column.)
I've been back out a time or two and didn't fare quite so well, as the wind was either too strong or too light. So try as I might, my other two outings were much less than productive. There were marginal shots to be had. They were taken and no one, other than my shoulder, were much worse for the wear.
While the birds simply didn't come in as they should. But then again, the flowers, frogs and damsel flies were pleasant enough to allow me to pass the time.
I might head out again, depending on if the birds stick around considering Thursday's chilly morning temperatures.
And then again, I might just pry open that pack of bacon and add a little dove seasoning to it.
If I had a few tomatoes, I'd have enough for a bacon, dove and tomato sandwich. A mess of them in fact.
Then again, maybe I'd be better off sticking to a pound of bacon and cooking my dove breasts on the grill.