Friday, October 2, 2009
I love dogs, I actually like most animals. I am not a lover of cats, but I grew to like them a little bit.
My dad, hated cats. He grew up on a farm and had wild cats that kept the rodent population at bay. But they were not domesticated and he suffered cat attacks.
My sister when we were kids got my mother to get her a cat. My dad threatened to drown said cat.
Big fight. Bottom line is, we kept the cat.
One time this cat got very ill and we spent a small fortune on getting it better. Hundreds of dollars. My dad flipped. But we paid.
A deal was struck, if the cat got sick again, we would put it down.
Well it got sick again. I was a early teen, that loved hunting, fishing and knew how to handle animals.
My dad, askes me to put down my sister's cat. I am extatic.
I get a chance to torture my older sister, who at times was a complete terror to me.
As most siblings can be.
I get the .22 and take aim, I miss...
My dad observes this and really lays into me. "Dont make the fucking thing suffer, your supposed to be doing a humane act, God damn it! If you cant do the job, I will do it!"
My sister if freaking out now, the cat has run for it's life, and I feel this is not a fun job. I had wanted to cause some pain to my sister, but now that she is sobbing, and carrying on, I feel bad. I did not think it threw. I only knew it needed to be done. I did not try to miss the cat, I took aim.
But I also did not prepare myself (prior to the first shot) at what I was about to do. Perhaps if I was thinking about my humanitarian job, I might have shot better, and got it over.
Now, with the histerics going, and the realization, that this poor sick cat, wants to live, and is running for it's life, I have empathay for it, and my sister.
I track it down to a pile of brush. The poor cat is in as deep as it can go.
It is trapped. It hisses at me, pure hatred. It knows what I am there to do. It growls and hisses at me.
I talk to it as I get my gun ready. "I'm sorry, we both don't want to be here, I will make it quick".
I aim, I take my breath, I hold, I kill. One shot, now with the grim realization I have to not miss.
It takes me 10 minutes to dig the cat out of the brush pile.
With it in my hands, I march back to the house.
My dad is there, and nods at me, I nod back. I am not celebrating the kill, like I uased to over duck or pheasant.
As I get to the porch (this is the same porch I used to use to scale and fillet fish, or skin other mamels taken from the hunt. I ask my dad, should I take the pelt?
"Pehaps Michele would like the fur as a memory".
My sisters wails from inside the house, announced she has heard her cruel younger brother's question.
My point in this blog is ALL life is precious. The Chinese way of killing animals seen in this URL is nasty.