Some days you lose.
Well, called up the birdie rehab center this morning to check on Sheila the Horned Lark, and the woman told me simply, "She didn't make it."
It's something I obviously didn't want to hear, but out of the birds I've dropped off at the two places over the years, that poor little one is the only one that "didn't make it".
We do what we can & hope for the best.
On this same sort of note, sad but sort of funny in a demented way, I was driving through the country on Saturday and had almost reached town when I spied a vulture rising from a carcass at the side of the road. As I neared it, I saw that it was a cat. I could tell what cat it was from the road and I pulled up in the ditch, tears welling in my eyes.
It was a neighbor's cat, a beautiful tabby with exotic swirled markings. He was also an unneutered male and a characteristic roamer. First off, I'm not a big fan of these people. The kids are okay, but the parents..... They're the sort that believe animals are disposable. They didn't deserve a handsome, sweet cat like that, and he didn't deserve to be dead at the side of the road with vultures picking at his bones.
I moved him off the road, carefully averting my eyes from his face, and I drove home slowly, appetite dead, crying for someone else's cat. I wasn't sure what to do. If I told them, would they care? Probably not enough to bring him home and bury him properly. If he never came back home again, would they miss him? Surely the kids will, but those kids didn't need to see his poor little body, so I decided not to say anything - it's not like I'm on super-friendly terms with these people other than the kids who enjoy petting my dog.
So, at 11 o'clock at night, it had weighed on me all day. Visions of the vulture and his handiwork kept popping into my mind. I felt bad that I had never crated him off to the vet to have him neutered, even if he wasn't mine. I had told Scott when he got home in the afternoon & he was very upset, too. As we stood in the garage, half-drunk, throwing darts, he could tell my thoughts were drifting & by the look on my face, he knew exactly where.
"Do you want to go get him?"
"Yes. I do."
So, we hopped in Scott's truck & off we drove with a large paper bag & some newspaper to pick a dead cat off the roadside. Mind, it was after 11 at night. I hopped out while he turned the truck back to homeward-facing and wrapped the poor unfortunate in the papers and put him head-first into the bag. Then we loaded him in the bed of truck and drove the mile or so home. On the way down our street, a tabby cat darted in front of us and I said, "HEY!" but the markings were not the same as the one in the back. Even if we had the wrong cat, we couldn't exactly toss him back in the ditch now anyway, could we?
We dug a small grave in the rich, dark earth, under the mulberry tree in the dog run with our handy new Coleman battery-operated lantern for light. At 11:30 at night. Tho' our back yard is private for the most part, our neighbors (not the owners of the cat) can look into it from their upstairs windows. And every light in the upstairs was on. We're pretty sure that they think we're eccentric, maybe even downright strange.
And then this. As if we aren't weird enough.
But, after we had placed him carefully into the grave and scooped the soft dirt back over him, I felt a tremendous weight lift off of my shoulders and I felt a little happier - at least we could offer him something. I told Stacey the next day and she deemed us bizarre for picking up dead things and burying them. Scott admitted he thought it was a little odd, too, even if it was the Right Thing, but if it made me feel better, then so be it. It did.
Sunday night found me standing in the kitchen when I heard a persistent meow coming from somewhere. I turned around and saw my Himalayan, Bella, glaring out the window at a small calico face peering in. If they ask, how can I refuse? I fixed a bowl of food and set it out on the porch. She immediately raced up & tucked into the meal. I didn't try to pet her, just offered her what I could, and stepped back inside. How do they know? Am I on the billboard for some sort of Feline Underground Railroad?
All the same, we do what we can and hope to win.
It's something I obviously didn't want to hear, but out of the birds I've dropped off at the two places over the years, that poor little one is the only one that "didn't make it".
We do what we can & hope for the best.
On this same sort of note, sad but sort of funny in a demented way, I was driving through the country on Saturday and had almost reached town when I spied a vulture rising from a carcass at the side of the road. As I neared it, I saw that it was a cat. I could tell what cat it was from the road and I pulled up in the ditch, tears welling in my eyes.
It was a neighbor's cat, a beautiful tabby with exotic swirled markings. He was also an unneutered male and a characteristic roamer. First off, I'm not a big fan of these people. The kids are okay, but the parents..... They're the sort that believe animals are disposable. They didn't deserve a handsome, sweet cat like that, and he didn't deserve to be dead at the side of the road with vultures picking at his bones.
I moved him off the road, carefully averting my eyes from his face, and I drove home slowly, appetite dead, crying for someone else's cat. I wasn't sure what to do. If I told them, would they care? Probably not enough to bring him home and bury him properly. If he never came back home again, would they miss him? Surely the kids will, but those kids didn't need to see his poor little body, so I decided not to say anything - it's not like I'm on super-friendly terms with these people other than the kids who enjoy petting my dog.
So, at 11 o'clock at night, it had weighed on me all day. Visions of the vulture and his handiwork kept popping into my mind. I felt bad that I had never crated him off to the vet to have him neutered, even if he wasn't mine. I had told Scott when he got home in the afternoon & he was very upset, too. As we stood in the garage, half-drunk, throwing darts, he could tell my thoughts were drifting & by the look on my face, he knew exactly where.
"Do you want to go get him?"
"Yes. I do."
So, we hopped in Scott's truck & off we drove with a large paper bag & some newspaper to pick a dead cat off the roadside. Mind, it was after 11 at night. I hopped out while he turned the truck back to homeward-facing and wrapped the poor unfortunate in the papers and put him head-first into the bag. Then we loaded him in the bed of truck and drove the mile or so home. On the way down our street, a tabby cat darted in front of us and I said, "HEY!" but the markings were not the same as the one in the back. Even if we had the wrong cat, we couldn't exactly toss him back in the ditch now anyway, could we?
We dug a small grave in the rich, dark earth, under the mulberry tree in the dog run with our handy new Coleman battery-operated lantern for light. At 11:30 at night. Tho' our back yard is private for the most part, our neighbors (not the owners of the cat) can look into it from their upstairs windows. And every light in the upstairs was on. We're pretty sure that they think we're eccentric, maybe even downright strange.
And then this. As if we aren't weird enough.
But, after we had placed him carefully into the grave and scooped the soft dirt back over him, I felt a tremendous weight lift off of my shoulders and I felt a little happier - at least we could offer him something. I told Stacey the next day and she deemed us bizarre for picking up dead things and burying them. Scott admitted he thought it was a little odd, too, even if it was the Right Thing, but if it made me feel better, then so be it. It did.
Sunday night found me standing in the kitchen when I heard a persistent meow coming from somewhere. I turned around and saw my Himalayan, Bella, glaring out the window at a small calico face peering in. If they ask, how can I refuse? I fixed a bowl of food and set it out on the porch. She immediately raced up & tucked into the meal. I didn't try to pet her, just offered her what I could, and stepped back inside. How do they know? Am I on the billboard for some sort of Feline Underground Railroad?
All the same, we do what we can and hope to win.
posted by RCSure | 11:28 AM
3 Comments:
This gets scarier and scarier with each passing day. You must move south. Twins should not be this far apart.
And now I must tell my dead cat story. D.D. in Texas tells it better, but I simply must share.
So check my blog soon, it'll be there.
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