Mogwai steps up his game and I get to live out Elmer Fudd's wet dream (i.e. kill da wabbit).
So, I'm going to actually start going back and talking about October for a bit, since I sort of missed it here. Maybe these can count as writing exercises. Whatever. It's cold and dark there's a constant mist in the air and I'm solar powered and require temps above 70 to function properly. This day has me wanting to curl up in a ball and do nothing, so I might as well write something. I'm afraid to work on my novel for fear I might snowball it again. I'm kind of at a stopping point at the moment and I'd like to keep it that way to get some obligations out of the way before picking it up again.
Remember that butterfly that I saved for like 18 hours from the bitter cold before Mogwai decided to make it a mid-morning snack? (p.s. I have still not made butterfly wing pendants) Well, the very next day. . .
. . . Mogwai felt a little embiggened by his kill the day before and thought he'd snuff out some bigger game.
It was a lovely Saturday. Chris and the neighbors were going in on a lawn aerator and sowing some grass seed that day. We were all in and out and spent a fair amount of time outside, particularly in the front yard. I worked getting gardens cleaned up to get ready to plant pansies that weekend. Mogwai was particularly blissful because he loves it when he can both be outside and gets a fair amount of attention from his humans.
Apparently he felt the need to bring us a gift for the great day he was having. After some time indoors, perhaps for lunch, I opened the front door to see Mogwai trotting proudly towards me and behind him a small brown rabbit about half his size that was not moving. I got Mogwai in the house and made sure Jonah didn't catch a glimpse of the scene, then walked out to investigate.
The rabbit was still breathing, although it was very labored. Exhales were no more than wet rasps and then I saw the blood coming from its nose. Otherwise, it looked unscathed, though in shock or possibly paralyzed. But there were no external wounds that I could see. I ran into the open garage and grabbed a pair of leather gloves for a closer inspection. It appeared to be unable to close its eyes and was very stiff. I suspected a broken neck and a punctured lung among other things, I'm sure. There was definitely internal bleeding and I was certain no way he could be saved.
I walked back into the garage to find the large jack knife in the camping gear and gently picked up the poor thing to carry it to the back yard for "disposal". I certainly didn't need our neighbors seeing me off a rabbit on the front walk. Suburbia isn't used to that sort of thing. I took another close look at him once we got into the backyard. I didn't want to make a mistake if he could be saved. But no, I was sure he couldn't. I said a few words of apology on Mogwai's behalf. I took a deep breath and remembered all the dissections in high school Biology class and assisting my dad with skinning deer. I thought severing his spinal cord would be the quickest, most painless way to end his misery and took a quick plunge into his neck. In half a second, his eyes went cold and I quickly scooped him up and buried him under the cedar tree.
When I came in the house, Chris asked if I would have nightmares from it. Really, no. I mean, it's not like I haven't been around some semblance of this sort of experience before. I'm able to separate from my compassion for animals in order to do what needs to be done. I was usually the one who wound up having to make the first (or all) incisions during dissections because my lab partners were too skeeved out to do anything but take the necessary notes (was a symbiotic partnership, really). My dad relied on me once during an unseasonably warm fall day when the unlikely event happened that he bagged two deer and had to get them dressed and to the processor as fast as possible. My brothers didn't want to have anything to do with it, so I helped without batting an eyelash. Our neighbors probably had reservations about peering into our backyard at two skinless, headless, footless deer hanging upside down from our play set while the blood drained from them. I regularly butcher whole chickens in my own kitchen.
Granted I never saw any of the above alive and breathing before working on them. But I revert to the same state of mind when I get into a situation like this. I knew if this rabbit could still feel anything, it was pain and fear. I wanted that to end for him as quickly as possible. I didn't reprimand Mogwai for the same reasons that I didn't get onto him for killing the butterfly. I don't want to deter any wild nature he's managed to preserve in himself. He's an animal, after all, even if domesticated. What I can't understand is that this thing was half his size! Mogwai is not the spry kitty he used to be when he brought us headless moles and gutted chipmunks in Huntsville. And those little bastards are tiny! Not only did he have to chase this thing down, but he had to drag it back home. I was just as proud of him for still being able to do it as I was irritated at him for following through.
Remember that butterfly that I saved for like 18 hours from the bitter cold before Mogwai decided to make it a mid-morning snack? (p.s. I have still not made butterfly wing pendants) Well, the very next day. . .
. . . Mogwai felt a little embiggened by his kill the day before and thought he'd snuff out some bigger game.
It was a lovely Saturday. Chris and the neighbors were going in on a lawn aerator and sowing some grass seed that day. We were all in and out and spent a fair amount of time outside, particularly in the front yard. I worked getting gardens cleaned up to get ready to plant pansies that weekend. Mogwai was particularly blissful because he loves it when he can both be outside and gets a fair amount of attention from his humans.
Apparently he felt the need to bring us a gift for the great day he was having. After some time indoors, perhaps for lunch, I opened the front door to see Mogwai trotting proudly towards me and behind him a small brown rabbit about half his size that was not moving. I got Mogwai in the house and made sure Jonah didn't catch a glimpse of the scene, then walked out to investigate.
The rabbit was still breathing, although it was very labored. Exhales were no more than wet rasps and then I saw the blood coming from its nose. Otherwise, it looked unscathed, though in shock or possibly paralyzed. But there were no external wounds that I could see. I ran into the open garage and grabbed a pair of leather gloves for a closer inspection. It appeared to be unable to close its eyes and was very stiff. I suspected a broken neck and a punctured lung among other things, I'm sure. There was definitely internal bleeding and I was certain no way he could be saved.
I walked back into the garage to find the large jack knife in the camping gear and gently picked up the poor thing to carry it to the back yard for "disposal". I certainly didn't need our neighbors seeing me off a rabbit on the front walk. Suburbia isn't used to that sort of thing. I took another close look at him once we got into the backyard. I didn't want to make a mistake if he could be saved. But no, I was sure he couldn't. I said a few words of apology on Mogwai's behalf. I took a deep breath and remembered all the dissections in high school Biology class and assisting my dad with skinning deer. I thought severing his spinal cord would be the quickest, most painless way to end his misery and took a quick plunge into his neck. In half a second, his eyes went cold and I quickly scooped him up and buried him under the cedar tree.
When I came in the house, Chris asked if I would have nightmares from it. Really, no. I mean, it's not like I haven't been around some semblance of this sort of experience before. I'm able to separate from my compassion for animals in order to do what needs to be done. I was usually the one who wound up having to make the first (or all) incisions during dissections because my lab partners were too skeeved out to do anything but take the necessary notes (was a symbiotic partnership, really). My dad relied on me once during an unseasonably warm fall day when the unlikely event happened that he bagged two deer and had to get them dressed and to the processor as fast as possible. My brothers didn't want to have anything to do with it, so I helped without batting an eyelash. Our neighbors probably had reservations about peering into our backyard at two skinless, headless, footless deer hanging upside down from our play set while the blood drained from them. I regularly butcher whole chickens in my own kitchen.
Granted I never saw any of the above alive and breathing before working on them. But I revert to the same state of mind when I get into a situation like this. I knew if this rabbit could still feel anything, it was pain and fear. I wanted that to end for him as quickly as possible. I didn't reprimand Mogwai for the same reasons that I didn't get onto him for killing the butterfly. I don't want to deter any wild nature he's managed to preserve in himself. He's an animal, after all, even if domesticated. What I can't understand is that this thing was half his size! Mogwai is not the spry kitty he used to be when he brought us headless moles and gutted chipmunks in Huntsville. And those little bastards are tiny! Not only did he have to chase this thing down, but he had to drag it back home. I was just as proud of him for still being able to do it as I was irritated at him for following through.