It's not the cost, really. It's the ignominy of having been goaded into becoming the architect of my own denouement, by a fucking bird.
It's walking back into your house and having your wife ask you "So, did you get it?"
I am generally a pretty good liar, or at least adept at spinning circumstances in such a manner as to reflect favorably on my behalf. However, the discharged pellet gun, the broken mirror, and the lack of a dead bird left me little opportunity for dissembling.
I do not enjoy having to explain to my wife what an idiot I am.
At the car dealership, they see the mirror. It looks exactly like the mirror got shot with a pellet gun. "Looks like somebody shot your mirror with a pellet gun. What happened?" they ask.
The shame of that question is much larger than you would think.
If you try to lie, than you have to admit to yourself, that not only are you an idiot to stupid to figure out the possible consequences of shooting at a mirror, not only are you such a terrible shot that you can't hit a sitting bird at 25 yards with a scoped pellet gun, you are also such a weasel that you can't even admit it.
So, I tried to downplay it. Which of course, made it more interesting.
"Yeah, I guess it got shot."
"Do you know who did it?" they ask.
"Yeah, I do. It was an accident, though."
"Huh! Some accident. What are they doing shooting pellet guns at your car? I hope they are going to pay you for it."
"Yeah, well, umm [sub]I kinda was the one who shot it[/sub]
"Oh," and then there's that uncomfortable silence where they kind of look at you the way your wife did when you tried to weasel out of admitting it.
On the bright side, I haven't seen the Shitbird since.
Here's the thing, though. If I do, I am going to kill the Motherfucker.