I feared the worst when that beautiful little beast came victoriously from out of the woods,
I saw violence, murder and death in her wake. Surely, she had conquered, she had vanquished, she had torn flesh and drawn blood somewhere in there. I know her ways, and the look in her eyes, and her desire, placed deep within by instinct.
But even so, I hoped and I waited for the bunnies to come out, as they always do lately; two little bunnies. They, an answer to my prayers. For years I’ve waited for them to visit our yard, and to make their home with us. How I love the innocent mammals, warm and soft, furry, gentle, eating our lawn in docile tranquility. I’ve watched them these past few days, perhaps a week or two, and my heart has burst with happiness. They are finally here with us. My dear little friends finally made it and are dwelling with us. It is a blessing, however short-lived. But joy rarely drives me to the pen or the keyboard with the same desperate compulsion as does pain, and in my suffering I now write. I have no other answer for death and the recurring terror of that final end.
I found my little friend where I expected to, sideways in the dirt under the trees, eye staring vacantly at the sky, his sable body inert and cold. A red gash just behind his ear, running ragged down his neck; the mark of a cat. She didn’t even eat him. She isn’t hungry, she is well fed, a housecat with a knack for killing just for the fun of it. My, how I hate her.
I buried the bunny in the earth, to the side of Rocco’s Loop Trail, a little trail I made not long ago in memory of my shih-tzu who died and took much of me with him. And after I buried the little creature I picked up two rocks, razor sharp, and heavy in my hand, perfect for throwing; and I went hunting. If I could find that calico I would kill it. Vengeance, a desire placed deep within me by instinct. But it is unlikely that I’ll kill her even when I find her unless I forget the bitter taste of remorse in that moment of opportunity. What other power is there over death but to kill? One grows weary of the weight of one’s impotence. One desires to act instead. Even if it is a futility. But I love cats also. So, what would another dead animal do for me?
Well, I want her to know the pain that she causes me when she kills. And I want God to know. Doesn’t anybody know? If I throw this rock will I get your attention?! Will it dry my tears once for all; and make the anger go away? If only. There is a case for vengeance, but experience shows that it is a weak case indeed.
~FS
Prayerful Life 