Why I wish I could communicate with animals.

So, I’ve had a pretty busy time the last few days – Easter weekend brought friends, barbeques and waaay too much booze.  I also had a friend stay last night and we went into town for the evening.  It was the first time I’d been out into town for about 7 months and we were home by 9.30, which I guess says it all.  The baby boy across from me in the restaurant didn’t help (not that he wasn’t beautiful of course) and then I got a voicemail from my boss asking for my ‘Mat D form and date of confinement’.  I had no idea what these things were so texted a friend who has two babies, and she texted me the information.  It also just happens that the friend I was with and I, have a lot of mutual friends who have babies already, and of course these people were partly the topic of conversation.  All of this I swallowed without too much trouble, bar a little indigestion and general feelings of discomfort.

About 10 minutes ago, I returned to my kitchen to find that one of my cats had brought in a very small, very beautiful dead kitten.  I stared at the little grey thing, lying on my hard grey tiles, before panicking that the cat, or the looming dog, would do something horrendous to it.  So I shooed them both away, my voice revealing my panic with a sort of, high pitched, scratchy wobble, and picked it up into a carrier bag.  It was grey and white, and had obviously been dead long enough for something to remove its back feet and to gnaw on one of its front paws – but it was still limp, so had not been dead that long.  I stared at its face; eyes tight shut, tiny grey nose; it was a really beautiful kitten.  I phoned my husband to ask him what to do, because other than put it in the carrier bag, I couldn’t seem to take any further action.  I began to cry on the phone, and cried more when Sam told me that I had to put it in the bin.  The kitten lay there in the bag, on my kitchen surface while I looked at it and sobbed.  Finally I folded the bag gently around it, before placing it carefully in the wheelie bin outside.

I think that had I not been in the situation that I am, I would have still found the experience incredibly sad – anyone that knows me can testify to the fact that I’m a complete sap when it comes to furry babies, just as much as none-furry ones – but there was something about the whole thing that provoked an overwhelming feeling of sorrow, and I am still sitting here thinking about that tiny dead kitten, wrapped in a Tesco carrier bag, just below the filthy lid of our bin outside.

This is (one of the reasons) why I wish I could communicate with animals – to say, ‘please, please do not bring dead animals into my kitchen, especially not tiny kittens…please’.

 

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