Being a chap who enjoys hosting birdies in the yard, despite their threat to washing and despite the occasional car bonnet "bombing", I was horrified.
And angry.
Whoever decided to slaughter these animals which were simply living the life they were designed to live was clearly in possession of a disturbing streak of genetic mutation coursing through their veins.
Something that is, to say the least, just not right.
It is disturbing because being in possession of such a genetic flaw means it could likely be diverted, one day, in another direction.
A human direction.
It is just not something that is done in a standard life.
So okay, people go out and shoot them, but they do that because that side of the equation is legal, within the clearly posted season, and the prey must be in the air.
And they have a chance...if the aim of the hunter is as flawed...as the genes of the mutant or mutants who carried out the Windsor Park attack.
As well, they tend to be served up as a meal later so there is a sort of meaning to it all.
But a week later on the way to work I saw a most gratifying sight.
For I came across the ducks on Tennyson...oh no...sounds like a restaurant.
I spotted a wayward male duck (oh it's always the bloke) who started waddling across Tennyson St, far from any pedestrian (or duck) crossing and with no apparent concept of how dangerous those big metal things going up and down can be.
So I slowed for him and he got across okay...and just as I passed I caught sight of his lady chum starting out on her crossing...and from the opposite direction a stream of traffic let loose by a green light had begun to approach.
I quickly glanced back and saw the bloke in the big blue vehicle at the head of the stream put his stop lights on, pushed his arm out the window to enforce he was hauling up...and he let the duck make her way to the safety of the footpath.
I was chuffed.
Ducks safe...for now, and a mere few seconds of delay for traffic.
So yes, submarines.
The tale of U-862 and how it motored slowly and cautiously into the waters of Hawke Bay back there in the summer of 1945 has long fascinated me.
There had always been rumours about the crew's passport-less visit here.
And tales of how some of the crew got in a boat and came ashore at Awatoto then crossed the countryside to a farm about a mile inland to milk some cows because they wanted some fresh milk.
I guess for kids such tales were terrific... better than the best war comic because it was on our own doorstep.
You could bike down to Awatoto on a Saturday morning (if there was nothing on at the pictures) and spent a few hours covering the paths one figured the German sailor boys would have taken from the beach inland.
There was always the chance of uncovering an Iron Cross or a signed photo of Adolf Hitler or whatever lying around but of course you would not have found a thing.
For that part of the "visit" was, of course, simply a story.
But oh the U-boat came in close to shore alright, as the commander's notes and logs later confirmed, but no one came ashore.
Instead, they scrambled on to the sub's decking structure and watched the colourful flickering lights of the Marine Parade and saw people dancing, laughing.
Must have been a shindig on at the Sound Shell and oh, those German lads so far from home would have been watching mutely.
It was our fascinating brush with WWII and added to our boyhood imaginations which had already been sparked by the gun emplacements along the seafront.
And crikey, the imagination still stirs because while they failed to step ashore they did leave a souvenir behind apparently.
Somewhere out there in the bay near the port is a torpedo.
Might dust off the net and go fishing next weekend.
