Sunday, May 16, 2004

I was just lighting incense, having just set my alarm for 9:30am instead of 6:30am, indulging myself, at least, in the fact that I would have over six hours of sleep, feeling really peaceful, when Snack, participating in some cosmic joke, comes sqeezing through the window carrying a pigeon, the birds whole head stuffed in his mouth. Unfortunately, the bird is not dead, which leaves me with astronomical ethical issues to contend with - do I kill the bird? Do I let Snack simply have his way with the bird, which will, to his hunting credit, actually involve eating his prey - damned if he ever brought me a mouse a present. I only knew they were dead because he'd occassionally be too full to eat the whole tail, or some other random part. I did know that I did not want the pigeon in the house, and I wanted to avoid picking the bird up, so I proceeded to push the bird outside with a broom as I figured out my next step. Which was to let the bird heal if it was to heal itself. Sometimes the shock just needs to fade. So I left the bird outside. I almost don't want to witness the consequence. Just hope to not have the bird there in the morning, having flown away, or having been consumed by some predator other than Snack, who may have been doing some grand demonstration of how pissed off he is about the new cat food. Not a hunger strike, rather a hunter strike. This whole scene made me feel so fucking American, that my deaths have to be unseen, antiseptic - I won't go so far as to even wash my hands of the affair, I simply won't touch it. And yet, even saying that, I am simply paralyzed in my ability to even know what to do - amidst the destruction, there's a tragic innocence. 3:04:12 AM