Anton was confident in his masculine qualities. The problem was just convincing the girls. Lederhose and a beer belly weren’t enough these days. Not even that you could drink 13 mugs of beer without having to fear further motor impairments. For a while he had really seriously considered whether he shouldn’t stop with the women altogether, but the very nature he boasted about, namely the male nature, stood in his way in this noble project. Not to forget that he also had a long rod with which he was able to land the biggest fish and a well-dimensioned shotgun, which he shot at every high-seat binge, in the truest sense of the word. In addition, he still had a talent for craftsmanship and was rarely the loser in a fight. In a word, a whole man, upon the appearance of which all the girls had to lick all ten fingers.
But Anton wasn’t interested in all the girls, just one, Mitzi, who looked so trim and well-proportioned in her dirndl. A little something on the ribs, the right curve here and there, that was exactly his. She obviously wasn’t a food hater. Not like these hunger hooks. Anton didn’t need that at all. At the side of a strapping fellow should be such a wench. But there was still the tale of romance that even the most down-to-earth females demanded. So, he had come up with something. If he was completely honest, he had asked his sister for advice and followed the advice she had given him. So, on the morning of Valentine’s Day, Mitzi found Anton with a bouquet of roses in front of the door, which he gave her and asked for a rendezvous. Mitzi turned red and white alternately, which expressed her national sentiment in a pleasant way, and she appeared to be very touched by his suggestion, so that she agreed without much back and forth to get away from him that evening, after that was done work, picked up and taken to the best restaurant in the village. Exhilarated, almost staggering with happiness in a way that had never happened to him before after 13 beers, he set off for work. In the afternoon he went home and, because he was in such high spirits and anticipation, decided to reward himself by finally shooting the crow that so brazenly ventured onto his property. Shooting ban or not. Who should notice that, if even show it? In a village, especially one where everyone hunted, or at least was related to someone who hunted, you didn’t turn yourself in. There was still solidarity. He caught the crows from his balcony. It felt lifeless to the ground, just right on Valentine’s Day, the day when love was celebrated, as he intended to do that evening.
And on that very day, when everyone is trying to find a rendezvous, perhaps finding their partner for life, on that very day, a crow lady had her life partner taken away from her. She had heard the shot and flew over curiously to see what was going on, wisely at a safe distance so that the gunman Anton could not see her. Only when he had finally left the house did she fly to her comrade. He lay cold and stiff on the grass. She nudged him with her beak, but he didn’t move. He would never move again. A single shot had been enough to take that bird’s life. From now on her existence was lonely, alone and sad. If this shooter had any idea what it meant to lose his partner, for no particular reason, just because he just felt like shooting someone. And it had happened, on Valentine’s Day, the day love is celebrated, when the crow lady had had her love taken from her.