I killed the rat.
I've noted that people quite often have an affinity with the animals
of the Chinese Zodiac year in which they are born. A bias.
I know a woman born in the year of the horse, and she loves horses.
Another friend, born in the year of the monkey.. acts like a monkey.
My sister, born in the year of the dog, loves dogs.
I was born in the year of the Rat. I think I even look a bit like one.
For the past few months I've have had a rat living in a compartment
beneath the sink cupboard. Decided that the stereotype is unfair,
that people love things like hamsters, yet hate rats.
Probably no fleas, no disease risk. May be wrong, but I question our
revulsion for things, for example, cockroaches, which I think, if
they lived in the sea, would be considered a delicacy.
What if prawns scuttled about the dark corners of our kitchens,
the identical creatures, would we cook them and eat them?
So I treated it, the poor timid, hiding creature, like royalty.
For three months, every night would leave out health bread, cheese,
chicken, even a dish of yoghurt with muesli which it licked clean.
It even started squeaking for me sometimes when I walked in, as if
to say 'hello'.
But then two nights ago, it went too far. It managed to pull open
a cupboard and ripped packets apart containing various types of food.
It somehow dragged a whole bar of glycerine soap from the bathroom
to its flat, can you believe it, they eat soap?
I finally gave in, and after deliberating for a day, became a murderer.
My question is, does everybody who kills rats invite bad karma?
Where does one draw the line?
I asked for a sign, something to tell me not to do it. Sounds crazy,
but the universe often gives me signs when I ask for them.
I have examples, that showed me the right path, but let's not digress.
I received no sign.
I put down Rattex pellets last night, and they had been removed by this
morning, as usual, stored with a level of consciousness that is aware
of storing things in preparation for an uncertain future.
Like us, fearful, unknowing, uncertain, needy, taking what we can.
I know they hemmorage to death. It must be a very painful way to die.
Unlike D.H. Lawrence's snake which got away, it is probably dying right now.
Quietly, alone, as you read this.
Was I right, or was I wrong?
For some questions, I don't want to know the answers.
***
From Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy.
"Of course you shan't do it," said Jude. "I'll do it, since it must
be done."
He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of a
couple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with the
knives and ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparations
from the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of the
scene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joined
her husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the
affrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to
repeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and together
they hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude
held him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs to
keep him from struggling.
The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but the
cry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless.
"Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have had
this to do!" said Jude. "A creature I have fed with my own hands."
"Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife--
the one with the point. Now whatever you do, don't stick un too
deep."
"I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That's
the chief thing."
"You must not!" she cried. "The meat must be well bled, and to do
that he must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meat
is red and bloody! Just touch the vein, that's all. I was brought
up to it, and I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long.
He ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least."
"He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat may
look," said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig's
upturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat;
then plunged in the knife with all his might.
"'Od damn it all!" she cried, "that ever I should say it! You've
over-stuck un! And I telling you all the time--"
"Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!"
"Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don't talk!"
However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done. The
blood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she
had desired. The dying animal's cry assumed its third and final
tone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on
Arabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing
at last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends.
