(no subject)
I hate you, K.
I hate the way you come around for long involved conversations with my mum about tree trimming and where your next holiday will be (you're never here - some people have too much money). I hate the way you laugh and ask us to water your plants, collect your mail, be residents for you. I hate this sense of entitlement, this lack of connection you have with my home, that you can just live on it without being in it.
But mostly I hate what you did to Poss. And what I did.
You came over to talk about, what else?, tree trimming. And laughed along like someone spoiled from too much life and beauty (which is what you are, and you'll never know it) that the "wildlife" was getting into your home. Lizards. In the downstairs flat (more rarely occupied than your own home) Scare my daughter. Robust chuckle, little scamps, how dare they. Get one out, another moves right in!
Wouldn't occur to you to just leave them be. Or, at least, not talk about them like they're intruding on your space. They aren't.
And I smile and am relatively unconcerned, because you're just normal. Then you mention Poss. A little possum, only a baby really, who your husband found sleeping on a garbage bag under a metal chair on your back porch. The chair gave it shade. My sleepy brain (you missed waking me up by a hair) registers this but doesn't relate. A possum sleeping out in plastic and on concrete, during the day?
Your first crime is not understanding.
Then a couple of rolling eyes and a giggle later, your husband shoos it away. You say plainly that it looked tired and confused and wanted to stay. It wasn't harming you. It wasn't in your way. It wasn't impacting on your life at all. The least you could do was let it sleep.
But you couldn't even do that.
I frown concernedly but you ignore that, like you ignore most things (but not the mail or watering the plants). I hurry to end the conversation, half knowing I should say something but (it isn't my place, it'll cause friction, you'll ignore me anyway) I'm tired of you now and want to go back to my life. Your pretend one suffocates.
That night, I come across little Poss drinking from the outside water bowl and nervously pulling clover from the cobbles. I speak softly and sit on the step, waiting for it it come out from under the house again. Poss does, I notice it has sore patches on it's tail and legs, but its eyes are bright and it runs when Buz stalks down the stairs. I pull a face and promise my cat won't hurt you, please come back. Buz wouldn't, really, I think. I hope. He's only had success with rats and mice.
Poss comes out again, creeps by my patched skirt and behind me. Runs down to the neighbours porch, following my black and white mystery cat. I follow but not fast enough. I call but all I see is Buz, looking like he knows something but won't tell me. I see they've moved the chair from the garbage bag. Poss is nowhere to be found.
I hate you, K.
I look for Poss the next day but find no sign. Then next, I get a call from Annie and she tells me Poss is in a bad way. One of its paws seems about to drop off. She gave it some banana and left. I growl at that (Manly will still be there) and end the conversation abruptly. I itch to be home faster, see how Poss is. Call Wires, maybe they can help. I arrive and search. I can't find Poss. I call and call, I wait on the step. But Poss doesn't want to be found. I worry and feed Muffin (the other little prowler, but one far to old to cause any damage to a living creature).
Later that night I come down the stone steps, flashing my torch in the darkness. Oh! Hello! There's... Poss? Seems... bigger. But its eating banana from where I left it, has sore patches on its tail. And it's holding its paw a strange way. Must be Poss. I'm relieved, and happy. Even as Poss disappears under the house with its sticky prize, I'm smiling.
I hate you, K.
I mention it to Simon, saying Annie's over-dramatising again. She has a tendency towards it. We go to bed, Buz comes home, I close the door behind him. Back to bed.
I go downstairs to feed Muffin in the morning (afternoon) and lying on the stone, between the water bowl and the path under the house, is Poss.
Real Poss, small Poss, almost a baby Poss. Stretched out on the hard, hot stone. I can't see one of its front paws. I call, it doesn't move. The flies do. I use the garden hose to push at its fur, make sure. I'm unsurprised. Poss is dead. Little, sweet, creeping Poss is dead.
I could have helped, you could have helped, I could have said something, I could have searched harder last night. And now darling little Poss is lying dead in the sun. It might be the way of the world but I hate the world, I hate myself, I hate.
I hate you, K.
I hate the way you come around for long involved conversations with my mum about tree trimming and where your next holiday will be (you're never here - some people have too much money). I hate the way you laugh and ask us to water your plants, collect your mail, be residents for you. I hate this sense of entitlement, this lack of connection you have with my home, that you can just live on it without being in it.
But mostly I hate what you did to Poss. And what I did.
You came over to talk about, what else?, tree trimming. And laughed along like someone spoiled from too much life and beauty (which is what you are, and you'll never know it) that the "wildlife" was getting into your home. Lizards. In the downstairs flat (more rarely occupied than your own home) Scare my daughter. Robust chuckle, little scamps, how dare they. Get one out, another moves right in!
Wouldn't occur to you to just leave them be. Or, at least, not talk about them like they're intruding on your space. They aren't.
And I smile and am relatively unconcerned, because you're just normal. Then you mention Poss. A little possum, only a baby really, who your husband found sleeping on a garbage bag under a metal chair on your back porch. The chair gave it shade. My sleepy brain (you missed waking me up by a hair) registers this but doesn't relate. A possum sleeping out in plastic and on concrete, during the day?
Your first crime is not understanding.
Then a couple of rolling eyes and a giggle later, your husband shoos it away. You say plainly that it looked tired and confused and wanted to stay. It wasn't harming you. It wasn't in your way. It wasn't impacting on your life at all. The least you could do was let it sleep.
But you couldn't even do that.
I frown concernedly but you ignore that, like you ignore most things (but not the mail or watering the plants). I hurry to end the conversation, half knowing I should say something but (it isn't my place, it'll cause friction, you'll ignore me anyway) I'm tired of you now and want to go back to my life. Your pretend one suffocates.
That night, I come across little Poss drinking from the outside water bowl and nervously pulling clover from the cobbles. I speak softly and sit on the step, waiting for it it come out from under the house again. Poss does, I notice it has sore patches on it's tail and legs, but its eyes are bright and it runs when Buz stalks down the stairs. I pull a face and promise my cat won't hurt you, please come back. Buz wouldn't, really, I think. I hope. He's only had success with rats and mice.
Poss comes out again, creeps by my patched skirt and behind me. Runs down to the neighbours porch, following my black and white mystery cat. I follow but not fast enough. I call but all I see is Buz, looking like he knows something but won't tell me. I see they've moved the chair from the garbage bag. Poss is nowhere to be found.
I hate you, K.
I look for Poss the next day but find no sign. Then next, I get a call from Annie and she tells me Poss is in a bad way. One of its paws seems about to drop off. She gave it some banana and left. I growl at that (Manly will still be there) and end the conversation abruptly. I itch to be home faster, see how Poss is. Call Wires, maybe they can help. I arrive and search. I can't find Poss. I call and call, I wait on the step. But Poss doesn't want to be found. I worry and feed Muffin (the other little prowler, but one far to old to cause any damage to a living creature).
Later that night I come down the stone steps, flashing my torch in the darkness. Oh! Hello! There's... Poss? Seems... bigger. But its eating banana from where I left it, has sore patches on its tail. And it's holding its paw a strange way. Must be Poss. I'm relieved, and happy. Even as Poss disappears under the house with its sticky prize, I'm smiling.
I hate you, K.
I mention it to Simon, saying Annie's over-dramatising again. She has a tendency towards it. We go to bed, Buz comes home, I close the door behind him. Back to bed.
I go downstairs to feed Muffin in the morning (afternoon) and lying on the stone, between the water bowl and the path under the house, is Poss.
Real Poss, small Poss, almost a baby Poss. Stretched out on the hard, hot stone. I can't see one of its front paws. I call, it doesn't move. The flies do. I use the garden hose to push at its fur, make sure. I'm unsurprised. Poss is dead. Little, sweet, creeping Poss is dead.
I could have helped, you could have helped, I could have said something, I could have searched harder last night. And now darling little Poss is lying dead in the sun. It might be the way of the world but I hate the world, I hate myself, I hate.
I hate you, K.