I heard it
squeal, but really it was a trill, gracenotes of liquid voice, almost like
birdsong, unpleasant only because I had one glimpse of the young rat dragging
its body into the violets, its hind legs dragging, paralyzed. I wasn’t sure that’s what I’d seen, a
young gray rat, with my old cat after it, until moments later, the dogs hanging
back with excited cheers and doubts (these three have never killed, unlike my
old cat, my tabby Emitte). Emitte
sat down on a mound of hard dirt farther up the garden. I went to pick him up,
put him back in the house, and at his feet as I got close, I saw the young rat,
dead. I don’t like to see anything
die.
Nothing, except ticks and
mosquitoes.
I stared at it, not
glad that it was dead, but relieved that it was not still breathing in some
pained and labored way. I got from
the garage a wide-bladed digging tool, and tried to push it gently, lengthwise
under the small body. The body
jiggled as if there were no bones at all.
The soft white belly fur and the gray fur, was like a sack within which
was nothing but blood or cream or soup.
Completely limp and boneless, the body fell twice from the trowel. I could see then how Emitte had killed
it. He had bitten, hard, at the
base of its tail, deep punctures that paralyzed the rat (so, yes, I had seen it
dragging its hindquarters), and possibly that is what killed it minutes
later. I don’t like to see
anything die.
I don’t like to see
anything dead. If this rat were
all white, and lived in a cage on my dressertop, it might still be spinning
happily it its wire sheel, and looking forward to sleeping in a crumpled soft
washcloth bed, or being petted and cooed to, or eating its special Purina rat
food for pet rats.
~
LCF April 25, 2012
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