And this is kinda gross, so if you are eating, you may not want to read on.
You've been warned.
...
Boyfriend and I went for a walk after work. I had had a shitty day, and it was nice to relax on the bike path. The path went through some wheat fields and meandered near some man-made creeks and canals. The sun was shining and the streams were overflowing.
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| I mean seriously, isn't this fucking beautiful? Also? The building way the hell out there is a pharmaceutical company that may or may not be responsible for the upcoming zombie apocalypse. Just FYI. |
I was taking some pictures of flowers, because I get endless enjoyment out of talking shit to the little showoffs.
Boyfriend laughed every time I did my little "spider dance" as a daddy-long-leg skittered across the hot pavement, and every time I said something like, "Wow, look at that shit! It's so fucking beautiful!"
I was in a cussing mood, and yes, with every f-bomb, I felt a little better.
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| Cut your hair you damned hippie! |
On the way back to the cars, we discussed wheat and drainage ditches, flowers, and how carrying a rain jacket is a sure way to make sure that it would never rain again. We passed geese and other chirpy chirp birds, the occasional bicycle rider zoomed by on our left.
I guess what I am saying is that the walk helped. I stopped feeling like I was going to cry from work. I started feeling like life was OK again.
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| Wheat? Grass? What, do I look like Farmer Joe to you? |
I tried to hold onto my peaceful calm even though that fucking Subaru cut me off and then slowed down, the little asshole. I didn't honk or scream at him once. I was like, a total Zen-fucking-Master.
A while later, we got stuck when I was following Boyfriend as a train passed. I turned off the car and watched the boxcars roll by. Some of them had some amazing artwork on the sides, and I was determined to enjoy the free vandal art show.
One had fancy letters and the world "Chicago", and I wondered if it was where they were from, where it had been tagged, or maybe someone's "road name" or something (I have been researching a possible career move to riding the rails, and they all get road names apparently).
Another one just looked like random scribbles, followed by "Eat my dick". The handwriting was that of a 6 year old, if they were particularly bad at writing. Little asshole. Can't even make the tag pretty.
Before I had a chance to really stew about it, though, the train ended and we continued driving.
Boyfriend lives in a basement out in the country with his two cats, Tais and George. The cats wander free in the large backyard, and probably range into the nearby horse pasture occasionally as well.
Every week or two, George likes to bring home a present... a half-eaten vole, a bird, a bat. Whatever he gets his greedy little claws on. Cats are built for killing, they have FIVE pointy ends. They are born assassins.
Today was different.
I stood in awe, trying to piece the... pieces... back together in my head. What had it been?
It looked like it had exploded.
"Oh," I said.
Boyfriend: "What?"
Me: "Look."
He looked. "Yeeesh," he said.
Me: "What was it?"
Boyfriend: "Was it a rabbit?"
Me: "Oh, yeah. That's a bunny ear." (And yes, "Stuck in the Middle" by Stealers Wheel started playing in my head. Just think "The ear scene in Reservoir Dogs". That song.)
Boyfriend went upstairs to get a shovel to clean it up, and I just kind of stood there and stared at all the little limbs. I bent down for a closer look. After a few minutes, I realized that I was looking at part of the head, with one of the ears still attached. The other ear was several inches away.
Over there was the cute little fluffy tail.
I didn't want to know what that weird bratwurst shaped grey organ over there, or that liver-like... uh... liver... uh. Nevermind.
Boyfriend came with the shovel, and tried to shove it under the various pieces in order scoop them into the trash bin.
It seemed to work for a second, picking up bits of bone and the head. But then it just kind of rolled over a piece of fur in a sickening way.
Boyfriend: "I need a stick or something. This won't work."
Me: "I can pick up the pieces." I said it without really thinking about it. I realized I would be fine as long as I couldn't smell anything, and I had plastic of some kind between myself and the bitty bunny bits.
I wrapped my arm in a trashbag, pinched my nose with the other hand, and started. Leg. Leg. Cotton tail. I picked up the head and tossed it quickly as it crossed my mind that I kind of wanted to do a scene from Hamlet with it, and it wasn't appropriate and WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME THIS IS GROSS, WHAT AM I DOING? Yeah, bunny's name is Yorick.
I got most of the things into the trash. I tossed the bratwurst without any trouble. But the liver-thing was still there.
Flattened. Dark red. I closed my eyes for a moment, grabbed and tossed.
It was squishy an cold, and left a blood stain on the carpet.
I tore off the bag and walked away, heaving slightly.
"Texture. Not. Good." I managed to say, then started washing my hands, scrubbing furiously.
Boyfriend did the rest once the big bits were all gone.
Yuck. I mean Yorick. I mean. I don't know what to say now.
George came up, wanting to cuddle. Was that carrion on his breath? Yeah, not right now kitty kitty.
...
Something I have learned about myself today: I don't have a problem picking up cute little half-eaten bunny heads, scattered ears and feet, fluffy tails, and assorted bones, but squishy organs make me heave.
14 comments:
Sort of similar: 3 or 4 times have I wandered into scenes where people were squealing in fear at some critter... lizard, bat, snake... who had decided to pass through normally "civilized" territory, like work or WalMars. And in the midst of the squealing, I'd walk over and pick it up. Poink! If I thought the crowd warranted it, I'd pretend to kiss it. Squeals of the masses are like the smell of napalm in the morning... everyone loves those.
I attribute this both to fearlessness ascribed by TV desensitization and, as my husband puts it, "too goddamn dumb to be scared."
Btw, I run shrieking if it's a bug. Bugs can just fuck right off.
PS... love the "cut your hair, hippie" caption.
To be honest, at first we thought it was a bunch of dead mice. Like a massacre of a whole mouse family.
Would the cat have herded them? Catch them one by one and bring them to the ring of death?
But I didn't have to think about how sadistic the cat was as I realized the bunny ear was only a couple of feet from the lucky foot.
-c
LeeAnn: I totally get it. But I end up thinking things like, "I know this is supposed to be gross/heave-worthy-etc, but I am not reacting. Am I in shock? Is something wrong with me? Does this make me a serial killer? Crap! Being a serial killer is going to be annoying and stressful! I don't want to!" This is why I was relieved the liver made me almost throw up a little.
C: Yeah. It did look a bit like a mousy murder rampage. I thought that maybe George Cat finally lost his marbles and became a "collector" or something. What do you do with a psycho-killer cat? Oh, wait. They're ALL psycho killers.
This is why I declawed my cat... no way am I picking up bunny bits...
Who am I kidding hubby and both kids scream when they see a spider...I totally would be the one picking up the bunny bits...
Texture and smell get me every time... sight not so bad!
I must admit I really like looking at dead critters (and sometimes poking them with a stick, if I'm being honest). I don't know why and it totally grosses my husband out. And like LeeAnn above I also like snakes and lizards, but spiders make me run away screaming. Makes no sense really.
JnetRuns: Oh thank goodness I am not the only one. I also like to take pictures if I think I can get away with it and not look "weird".
And I am OK with almost every creepy crawly except spiders. Maybe we're all like, long lost triplets or something.
I actually have a friend who keeps dead things in his freezer. By dead things, I don't mean that in the way that many people keep dead things in their freezer... you know, for future consumption. He keeps roadkill in his freezer until he gets a chance to properly disassemble it. He also has BOXES (note the plural!) of animal bones. He brought home some porcupine arms (with the hands still attached!!!) the other day. He does this all under the guise generating a comparative zooarchaeology collection. Nobody buys it. He just likes to play with dead stuff.
HBO didn't do it for me. It was my father, teaching my how to skin a rabbit, when I was seven. I once had to put a baby owl "out of its misery" when I was eight, with a shovel. It was bad, really bad. My dogs had totally fucked it up, forget animal rescue, that thing was suffering and, well, I did it and then my dad praised me and told me I had "done good," but I was more concerned with the lack of feeling and even at eight, I think I knew I was going to some day become a serial killer.
A few days ago I had to pick up a dead Kamikaze Robin that did his final flight right into my garage door beak first. It wasn't gory or anything but I still almost heaved on the way to the trash. I can castrate a pig or kill and clean a chicken... but the idea of random dead things like the bird or say, a mouse in a mouse trap I just can't do. I need to watch more HBO. hahaha
PudMonkey: OK, so, watch your pets. This "friend" seems to have crossed over that line into weird serial killer land... oh, wait, are you talking about yourself and making up a hypothetical "friend"? Aww, no, please don't put me in your freezer!!!
wagthedad: That sounds like a formative experience. And by formative, I mean that I would be hesitant to hang out if I had a broken limb. STOP HITTING ME WITH THE SHOVEL, I AM NOT SUFFERING THAT MUCH!
Angie: What's with birds that do that? I will go years without seeing it, and then have a summer with a half a dozen bird smashies. It MIGHT have something to do with not washing the windows more than once every few years, but I am not sure.
And more HBO is always a good idea... although I think they stopped showing slasher flicks and have moved to porn... still informative, but in a different way.
Several cogent points:
1. I have been creeped out by Daddy Long Legs ever since I found out when they do that bouncing up and down thing it's 'cause they're trying to bite you -- but their mouths are too small. So if they get irradiated and huge, we're fucked.
2. Hippie flower needs to get a job.
3. If you can pick up the head of ANYTHING and not wanna do Hamlet, I don't wanna know you.
AND 4. It's the squooshing. I can't take the squooshing, which is kinda like texture but more vomit-inducing. If I don't have to FEEL the squoosh, I'm fine. As long as it's not still warm.
hoodyhoo: You're so right! I just didn't have the right word. Squooshing. I am totally going to remember that one.
And I agree with 3. Totally.
Re: killing the owl. I feel like a complete dick about it, felt like it then, but it was soo terribly messed up that the vet would have just put it down, and I thought it would have suffered for another five hours or so.
And anyway, that's what was expected of a growin' man (I was eight) in my neck of the woods back then.
No worries, I'm not going to get into euthanasia or anything like that. Unless people ask me to, which if that happened, I would kind of feel impolite if I didn't oblige, you know?
If you prever a pickaxe or something, I can accomodate.
wagthedad: Pickaxe sounds... uh... fine? Only if I join the legion of the undead, though. Then it isn't "euthanasia" so much as "protecting the world from the zombies", which would make you a hero.
But that is a pretty fucked up decision to have to make at any time, let alone as a little kid. There is a special horror inside when a wild thing suffers like that, though.
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