Duck Mourning III

At first glance it was almost impossible to know what it was. It was soggy, feathered, and......Dole. When I saw the silvery collar, I knew it was him. I inhaled a short, sharp breath. Last night, while I was lying in bed, I'd heard Momma and Grandpa debating whether we should sell him to a duck breeder or not. Grandpa argued that we need the money and he wasn't wrong. While stroking Dole's wet feathers, I noticed a small hole in his back. I dug into with my finger. A smooth, dusty colored rock fell into the palm of my hand. It was covered in crimson blood.
Dole was dead, there was no mistaking that. The rock..... I mean, I........ and Dole is..... So I might've..... It was almost too much for me to grasp. If I told Momma that I killed what could be even a little more money for us, she just might break down in tears. Things were bad as is and Dole's murder would just wrap everything up with a nice little bow. I fled the crime scene, sprinting to Grandpa's shed with the victim still in hand. I needed to find a place to hide the once-beloved duck I had accidentally slaughtered. Not really an easy task.