…Especially with
reference to killing small rodents.
Cats are mad, 'tis
common knowledge. With a dog you
can feel safe when home alone at night, any suspicious noise is met with a loud,
confident reply. Cats just look
half way up the wall with that mad, wild-eyed look on their face which,
subsequently, reduces you to a blubbering wuss.
My story isn't really to
do with mad cats, although our cat was actually mad (it pissed in my
shoes on numerous occasions, the bastard, and we eventually buried it, in a shoe
box - with the shoes funnily enough).
Anyway, the Field Mouse
it left for us was not nearly dead and was in need of a humane, efficient and
clean exit from this life.
Hence this was the
problem my Father and I pondered one sunny day. Obviously the 'leave it to nature'
method and 'hammer' technique were quickly dismissed although we did spend a not
an insignificant amount of time considering such ploys as (..now how do I thinly
disguise this..) drive over it with the car.
Of course we discussed
the disadvantages of such, including neighbours and another area which can be
generally defined under the title "mess".
But then lightening struck!
(no, that would be too 'Disney'…) my Father recalled a newspaper article
which explained that drowning - contrary to all my sensible beliefs - was
actually a rather quick and pleasant death.
No blood or goo, hence
no problem. We had a bucket, ample
water, a brick and the plan - oh and a small injured rodent who, if able to hold
rational thoughts, would probably be thinking something along the lines of
"hurry up you utter bastards" (or the like..)
Four minutes later we
were still in a state of horror as the bloody thing continued to kick and thrust
(and probably missing the mad feline).
Shaking, grimacing and
eyes filled with terror - it's difficult to describe how bad we felt. On the one hand a Worldly adult who has
seen a fair share of rough 'n' tumble and, on the other, a 'tuff' (ahem) teen
who laughed through the whole Fred West malarkey. The final two minutes were the worst
though. Each sigh of relief was met
with further spasms - just the arms and legs jutting out from beneath the brick
for yet another wild few seconds…on and on and on…
Although in a strange
twist to this story, a number of years later, as a house owner, I had a resident
Vole which survived every single attempt on its life - until a feckin'
great big Rat moved in, ate it and caused wide-spread domestic havoc. At which stage I learned from my
mistakes and, believe it or not, sold the house and moved to Canada…
[Oh, for the attention
of the 'Funny' people - my two pints of piss submission also belongs in
the non-fiction..]
