Apparently, I wrote this during the summer during one of my lunch breaks at the little art camp I did Community and Service at. I found it and figured I'd put it for the sake of putting something up.
Nothing is quite as depressing as your pet bringing you home a freshly killed small fuzzy as an act of love. My fat Siamese cats have taken up hunting as not only a sport, but as a way to bring us gifts. I’ve opened the front door to feed the boys only the be greeted with the sight of a feather covered door mat or small limbs floating in their water dish. I spend a few moments panicking in that laugh/cry kind of way before sobering up enough to grab the broom and a plastic bag. My cats sit and watch all this through half-lidded eyes, purring with their contentment. I march myself back outside and meticulously sweep the mangled little bodies into the plastic bag and then dump it onto the small grass slope of the lawn as I pull out the hose. As I spray down the pavement, I can’t help but see the handles of the waiting bag wave and rustle in the hot summer air. What a humiliating way to cast yourself off and into the next life. Even when our previous pets died, we never even gave a thought to a “burial”. They were gone, we cried, and then we slowly found a way to move on. But now, looking at this flimsy little shroud, I feel guilty for not finding another way to dispose of this poor creature. I turn off the hose and solemnly lift the bag with my dripping hands and lower it gently into the nearby trashcan. Gently, because no soul wants to be flung into oblivion, and it would make me ill to hear the dull thud. I am sad, but I’ve done the best I could. I just hope I won’t be in charge of another prey’s funeral anytime soon.
Nothing is quite as depressing as your pet bringing you home a freshly killed small fuzzy as an act of love. My fat Siamese cats have taken up hunting as not only a sport, but as a way to bring us gifts. I’ve opened the front door to feed the boys only the be greeted with the sight of a feather covered door mat or small limbs floating in their water dish. I spend a few moments panicking in that laugh/cry kind of way before sobering up enough to grab the broom and a plastic bag. My cats sit and watch all this through half-lidded eyes, purring with their contentment. I march myself back outside and meticulously sweep the mangled little bodies into the plastic bag and then dump it onto the small grass slope of the lawn as I pull out the hose. As I spray down the pavement, I can’t help but see the handles of the waiting bag wave and rustle in the hot summer air. What a humiliating way to cast yourself off and into the next life. Even when our previous pets died, we never even gave a thought to a “burial”. They were gone, we cried, and then we slowly found a way to move on. But now, looking at this flimsy little shroud, I feel guilty for not finding another way to dispose of this poor creature. I turn off the hose and solemnly lift the bag with my dripping hands and lower it gently into the nearby trashcan. Gently, because no soul wants to be flung into oblivion, and it would make me ill to hear the dull thud. I am sad, but I’ve done the best I could. I just hope I won’t be in charge of another prey’s funeral anytime soon.
Community Member
Lovely little peice of writing. <3