Here’s something you might not guess about me: I have purposefully taken the life of an animal in order to eat it. Okay, more than one. And I don’t mean in the existential I-eat-meat-therefore-I-take-lives sort of way. I mean with a knife.
Anyway, so I had just come home from work and picking up Sadie yesterday evening, and I put sleeping Sadie’s car seat in her crib and shut the bedroom door. I went back out to the car to fetch the rest of the crazy load I always seem to have, and there it was. A bird. A dovey-pigeon sort of thing. At first, I thought it was drinking some melted snow that had puddled. But then I realized it was letting me get entirely too close to it. I looked a bit closer and saw that it seemed to be standing on only one leg. I kind of nudged it with my boot, and it just sort of looked up at me. I knew then that it was definitely hurt. I thought about picking it up, but birds and diseases are a little iffy for me (says the gal with the chickens in her backyard). In that moment, I thought it would be best just to take its life. To kill it. So it wouldn’t have to wait to be run over by a car or to freeze or starve to death. I knew it wouldn’t be difficult. But it was too hard. I couldn’t do it. It was never a problem for me to kill a chicken or a turkey to eat it. But, after carrying my rosy-cheeked, full-of-life spawn into the house, it was simply too hard to do.
I hope the bird didn’t have to wait too long to die. And I hope the universe forgives me for chickening out in the heat of the moment.