I'm Living With Killers
It’s a relaxing Tuesday evening . . . . Rod has just cooked me dinner (as per usual, I’m so spoiled). As we settle ourselves down with our plates and a nice wine, all of a sudden, our cat Mitzer bowls through the cat door and all I can hear is a loud, urgent ‘peep, peep’ of some small animal!
I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.
You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the bathroom where I had squeezed myself into the farthest corner . . . . .. he was carrying a large leaf. “Is this it?”
As my hyperventilation calmed down, I realised I may have slightly over-reacted.
Okay, so back to the present . . . . I’m reliving that horror in my mind as squeals emanate from the living room.
“It’s a baby bird,” Rod yells. He knows I’m a sucker for baby animals, but this time it is not going to work – I’m not going all mushy. He picks it up in his hand and starts walking toward me.
“I don’t want to SEE it,” I scream, wishing this damn lounge chair was two stories taller. I think he’s going to try to touch me with it. An irrational fear . . . . I’m yelling loudly as he looks at me like I’m a freak and slowly, calmly takes it outside.
But the baby bird can’t fly. Obviously “Mitzer the Killer Cat” has stolen it from a nest.
For the next few minutes, we discuss what to do with it. Rod decides to put it on a high bench and pray those flying instincts miraculously kick in withn the next few minutes!
So, the baby bird is outside and now so are both cats – this is way too much excitement for them to ignore, of course.
We settle back down to our dinner. . . every few moments we hear the baby bird SCREAMING again (eating chicken while listening to the screeches of a dying bird - all too ironic and somehow appetite dampening). Mitzer is playing with it while our older, anxiety-ridden cat, Pele, stands guard with his famous, “should you really be doing that, Mitzer?” look on his little face.
For another 30 minutes, Rod and I take turns peeking out of the blinds at the scene in the backyard, reporting on Mitzer’s proximity to the bird and status of the bird’s liveliness.
“Is he flying away, yet?”
“No chance.”
“This is torture!” Rod finally admits. We decide that we are in danger of being reported to the SPCA for animal cruelty if something is not done soon.
Rod looks at me with a look of appeal . . . .. . “Hey, I’m not doing anything, you’re the boy!” This is the line I use several times a week, usually when it involves having to do something dirty or gross or kinda scary.
We both know what must be done. End the madness.
We live in the suburbs, so unlike where we both grew up in the country, you can’t just throw the bird over the fence or down in the woods . . . . I can see Rod’s analytical mind thinking, “hmmm, how to end this?” He ends up grabbing a paper towel (he suddenly doesn’t want to touch the bird anymore – don’t blame him) and a Ziploc bag (the big freezer size is best for this job apparently).
By this time, Pele the fraidy cat is inside on my lap and Mitzer is sitting by the doorway with a furrowed brow wondering what the heck Rod is about to do with his new toy. We all watch him as he walks outside . . .. . closes the door behind him. I swear all three of us were each holding our breath. I wasn't quite sure of his exact plan but I knew it wouldn't involve a happy ending.
Before we know it, there’s a dull but loud ‘THUD’ against the house. . . . we jump and the cats and I look at each other . . . .a few seconds silence . . . a second dull, loud thud. I swear to you it sounded like those scenes in scary movies when the bad guy kills someone with a silencer on the end of his revolver.
Rod opens the door to the three of us, our human and cat eyes staring at him with awe and fear. No one says (or meows) a word. Rod looks at me with a look of remorse. I just let out a nervous giggle and say “I’m so glad you’re the boy!”
Fast forward 12 hours . . . . Rod has decided to have a little sleep in this morning. Me too. It’s 6:45 or so. All of a sudden, from the hallway we hear that same loud, ‘peep, peep!’
“You’ve got to be kidding me? Damn, cat,” Rod says. “It’s all yours!” I say and immediately assume my usual ‘evacuate to higher ground’ position on the bed.
Rod races out of bed. This time, there’s no fooling around. He knows that he can’t save this baby bird. As he walks by it in the hallway he says, “it’s opening and closing its little beak like it wants the cat to feed it! I think it’s hungry. Maybe we could save it?”
Again, he’s trying to appeal to my love of baby animals, but long ago I put this thing in the same category as mice and rats. I have no love for this little bird. “Are you kidding me?! I’m not nursing it!” I really do think he was serious for a moment.
Rod looks at me with that “please don’t tell me I have to do this again” look in his face. He starts the long, slow march to the kitchen and proceeds to get his ‘kill kit.’ We had just watched Serial Killer Sunday on the Crime & Investigation channel a few nights prior where I learned about this technical term - - usually the ‘kill kit’ involves such items as rope, a knife and Vaseline - perhap some chloroform. But, Rod’s ‘kill kit’ is two paper towels (a double barrier from baby bird cooties) and a large, freezer-size Ziploc bag.
As I listen I prepare myself for the inevitable . . . .the same two dull thuds against the house.
I’m now back under the covers for protection and can see Rod taking the body to the garage to put it in the rubbish bin. He looks back at me with sorrow and remorse in his eyes (he wasn’t born to be a killer, it was just unfortunate circumstances that drove him to it!).
I yell, “I’m glad you’re the boy!” I giggle. He says it’s not funny. No, it’s not....
To top off the experience, that very morning, there is an animal expert from the University of Colorado on the morning breakfast show talking about how animals are generally kind to each other in the wild and us humans could learn a thing or two from them. I hear Rod mutter an adamant, ‘bullshit!’ Yep, I agree. Nature is cruel.
Let me just say how happy I am that baby birds normally only come two to a nest. No further signs of carnage in the neighbourhood. No need for the ‘kill kit’ in recent days. Thank goodness.....
I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.
You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the bathroom where I had squeezed myself into the farthest corner . . . . .. he was carrying a large leaf. “Is this it?”
As my hyperventilation calmed down, I realised I may have slightly over-reacted.
Okay, so back to the present . . . . I’m reliving that horror in my mind as squeals emanate from the living room.
“It’s a baby bird,” Rod yells. He knows I’m a sucker for baby animals, but this time it is not going to work – I’m not going all mushy. He picks it up in his hand and starts walking toward me.
“I don’t want to SEE it,” I scream, wishing this damn lounge chair was two stories taller. I think he’s going to try to touch me with it. An irrational fear . . . . I’m yelling loudly as he looks at me like I’m a freak and slowly, calmly takes it outside.
But the baby bird can’t fly. Obviously “Mitzer the Killer Cat” has stolen it from a nest.
For the next few minutes, we discuss what to do with it. Rod decides to put it on a high bench and pray those flying instincts miraculously kick in withn the next few minutes!
So, the baby bird is outside and now so are both cats – this is way too much excitement for them to ignore, of course.
We settle back down to our dinner. . . every few moments we hear the baby bird SCREAMING again (eating chicken while listening to the screeches of a dying bird - all too ironic and somehow appetite dampening). Mitzer is playing with it while our older, anxiety-ridden cat, Pele, stands guard with his famous, “should you really be doing that, Mitzer?” look on his little face.
For another 30 minutes, Rod and I take turns peeking out of the blinds at the scene in the backyard, reporting on Mitzer’s proximity to the bird and status of the bird’s liveliness.
“Is he flying away, yet?”
“No chance.”
“This is torture!” Rod finally admits. We decide that we are in danger of being reported to the SPCA for animal cruelty if something is not done soon.
Rod looks at me with a look of appeal . . . .. . “Hey, I’m not doing anything, you’re the boy!” This is the line I use several times a week, usually when it involves having to do something dirty or gross or kinda scary.
We both know what must be done. End the madness.
We live in the suburbs, so unlike where we both grew up in the country, you can’t just throw the bird over the fence or down in the woods . . . . I can see Rod’s analytical mind thinking, “hmmm, how to end this?” He ends up grabbing a paper towel (he suddenly doesn’t want to touch the bird anymore – don’t blame him) and a Ziploc bag (the big freezer size is best for this job apparently).
By this time, Pele the fraidy cat is inside on my lap and Mitzer is sitting by the doorway with a furrowed brow wondering what the heck Rod is about to do with his new toy. We all watch him as he walks outside . . .. . closes the door behind him. I swear all three of us were each holding our breath. I wasn't quite sure of his exact plan but I knew it wouldn't involve a happy ending.
Before we know it, there’s a dull but loud ‘THUD’ against the house. . . . we jump and the cats and I look at each other . . . .a few seconds silence . . . a second dull, loud thud. I swear to you it sounded like those scenes in scary movies when the bad guy kills someone with a silencer on the end of his revolver.
Rod opens the door to the three of us, our human and cat eyes staring at him with awe and fear. No one says (or meows) a word. Rod looks at me with a look of remorse. I just let out a nervous giggle and say “I’m so glad you’re the boy!”
Fast forward 12 hours . . . . Rod has decided to have a little sleep in this morning. Me too. It’s 6:45 or so. All of a sudden, from the hallway we hear that same loud, ‘peep, peep!’
“You’ve got to be kidding me? Damn, cat,” Rod says. “It’s all yours!” I say and immediately assume my usual ‘evacuate to higher ground’ position on the bed.
Rod races out of bed. This time, there’s no fooling around. He knows that he can’t save this baby bird. As he walks by it in the hallway he says, “it’s opening and closing its little beak like it wants the cat to feed it! I think it’s hungry. Maybe we could save it?”
Again, he’s trying to appeal to my love of baby animals, but long ago I put this thing in the same category as mice and rats. I have no love for this little bird. “Are you kidding me?! I’m not nursing it!” I really do think he was serious for a moment.
Rod looks at me with that “please don’t tell me I have to do this again” look in his face. He starts the long, slow march to the kitchen and proceeds to get his ‘kill kit.’ We had just watched Serial Killer Sunday on the Crime & Investigation channel a few nights prior where I learned about this technical term - - usually the ‘kill kit’ involves such items as rope, a knife and Vaseline - perhap some chloroform. But, Rod’s ‘kill kit’ is two paper towels (a double barrier from baby bird cooties) and a large, freezer-size Ziploc bag.
As I listen I prepare myself for the inevitable . . . .the same two dull thuds against the house.
I’m now back under the covers for protection and can see Rod taking the body to the garage to put it in the rubbish bin. He looks back at me with sorrow and remorse in his eyes (he wasn’t born to be a killer, it was just unfortunate circumstances that drove him to it!).
I yell, “I’m glad you’re the boy!” I giggle. He says it’s not funny. No, it’s not....
To top off the experience, that very morning, there is an animal expert from the University of Colorado on the morning breakfast show talking about how animals are generally kind to each other in the wild and us humans could learn a thing or two from them. I hear Rod mutter an adamant, ‘bullshit!’ Yep, I agree. Nature is cruel.
Let me just say how happy I am that baby birds normally only come two to a nest. No further signs of carnage in the neighbourhood. No need for the ‘kill kit’ in recent days. Thank goodness.....
Comments
Good Work!!!!
Best of Luck........