Cats hunt

Cats hunt.

They always do.

And part of it is the way they play with the prey. I know that it’s partially because they do not need to hunt to eat, not being domestic, but still gets in me, in my little mind of a city person, whispering so my fears.

So I find the bird.

It’s dying, I know it. But I can’t kill it by twisting it’s neck, I might not even kill it and just end up making things worse.

I couldn’t bring myself to cut it in half with an axe, or even a knife. I couldn’t deal with the bloodshed.

So I talk to people and they give me advise.

In the end, the “best” I can do is to let it die in relative peace.

So I put a wooden tomato box in top of it to keep the cats away.

If I let the bird to its fate in the paws of the cats they would play with it rather than eat it.

Its death would still be wasted, its flesh rotting.

So I leave it there.

Dying.

Agonizing.

Alone.

Because of my fear.

It’s funny how I can distance myself from this by calling the bird an it, in Spanish you don’t have that liberty.

And I wait. I occupy my mind with other things, trying to keep this and other fears at bay.

Then I notice that the cats are inside the house.

They are no longer harassing the bird.

I should have moved faster.

I just kept waiting for death.

But in the end, death is not a noticeable thing for us living ( or those we think we’re alive), it is only after it happened.

Then I went to check on the bird.

It was stiff. Its legs stretched and immobile.

Dead.

And now I have a cadaver to deal with.

Escrito 11/11/16