September 8, 2008

On to another Monday, and I’m thinking about baby rabbits.

Growing up in Madison Heights, we had a revolving cast of friends that we hung out with. Basically, there was a decent bunch of kids and it depended on who was home, biking around, or who happened to be in a frequented spot. That late summer day, my brother and I happened to be biking around the elementary school when we saw some kids looking at something on the side of the building.

We rode over and checked it out. It was the usual suspects – Amir, one of the younger Arab kids from our neighborhood, Bobby, the little brother of Paul Peace who, unlike his name might suggest, was probably the least peaceful of the older boys in our neighborhood. I can’t recall the others but there were at least 5 kids kneeling on the ground, studying something.

We looked, too.

“Someone shot up these baby rabbits,” one of the kids said.

“Asshole,” another muttered.

We peered closer, and we saw about four little bunnies, their eyes not even open, with wounds in their sides. One of them was still alive, and this was the one the group was focused on.

“We have to kill it. It’s suffering.”

The group voiced their agreement. After a moment, the next question came.

“How? What do we do?”

Suggestions were brought forward. A bunch of dirty little kids, usually content to while away summer with normal play, were now some kind of tribunal making life and death decisions. A stick was brought forward, very Lord of the Flies before I had ever read the book. It wasn’t enough, we discovered, as it didn’t pierce the flesh of the bunny as much as just push it in.

“Wait,” said Bobby. “I have a jackknife.” He flicked it out, but found he couldn’t do it. He gave it to Amir, who discovered he couldn’t muster the courage either. Then somehow, we all agreed to hold the knife together and do this deed as one. We pushed down quickly, everyone’s summer-stained hands on the handle. It screamed, but died a quick, merciful death.

Silently, the knife was cleaned on the grass, and we all parted ways. I don’t remember anyone ever speaking of it again, and I wonder if even my brother remembers it. I’ll have to ask him at Thanksgiving, I suppose.

I turn into the parking structure of my office. Tonight we say good-bye to our cat Pandora, who has lived a long life and was loved very much. We will take her to the vet where they will put her to sleep, then take her poor cancered body away. It was her time, and I know this, but it still sucks.

I walk into the elevator, and await the inevitable.

Strange Calm

We lost our second cat on Monday and I feel like I should write about it. But not much. I'm too tired.

What I feel now is a strange calm. I wonder if this is acceptance, stage five of grief. I reckon so. Yesterday I was in such intense despair and sadness that my body was reacting in ways I'd never experienced: weakness in the legs, tingling fingertips, a sense of falling down a deep hole.

Just a cat, you say? No. She was a friend and companion, and I will miss her.

Say hi to your sister, Pandora. I wish I could feel both of you in my arms right now.