Senility vs Instinct

Living in the countryside, I am all to aware, can put a vegetarian somewhat at odds with their surroundings at times.

Aged 9 I had the unfortunate nickname of 'Captain Planet' by a boy who is now one of my best friends (and occasionally thinks it is amusing to refer to me as such). I was a troubled child who wore various oversized 'save the [random endangered species]' teeshirts (occasionally these were teamed with leggings just to finish off the look). I could have chosen to simply adhere to my parent's wishes and continue quietly with my meatless diet. But no, before I knew any better, I wanted to save the world.

I regularly chose the majority of my Christmas list that wasn't Lego from the WWF magazine (oh god I think I'm revealing too much of my sinister past). My sister and I tried to save numerous birds, devotedly feeding them through a pipette for all of an afternoon until we got bored and our parents had to assume the motherly role that we'd hastily vacated.

I even had a board game called 'go green'. It came with a tape. And I still remember the lyrics.

Due to a consistent backlash of piss taking and the assimilation into a 'normal' teenager, once I hit around 14 I, well, stopped caring. Which was probably for the best considering my dangerous leanings at such a tender age towards Greenpeace. I can't remember when it happened exactly, but I can now cook a bacon sandwich with some skill, slice ham directly off the bone, remove the jelly from the top of a tin of spam with only the most insignificant of gipping noises (my cast iron stomach and bizarre array of skills shall forever be in debted to my nursing home past) and walk past a field of sheep, my dad, a reasonably strict vegetarian (depending on if my mum is cooking for him, his devotion waivers somewhat when she's away and he's near a fish and chip shop), yelling something about juicy mutton and not even flinch. In fact, I've been known to join in.

Today however, my disregard for animal life was tested somewhat.

Our three cats are hunters. Over the years, I've seen (or seen the remains of) them devouring rats, mice, rabbits, birds and a variety of other harmless vermin and rodents. Only this week, I've had to deal with a dead bird and a very much not dead bird (although after me man-handling the poor thing in order to get it out of the kitchen, I wouldn't be surprised if it met a hasty end on escaping).

But today, the old lady of our trio of felines, with a muffled series of confused meows, presented me with a rather large and very dead rabbit.

I didn't tell her off. She is increasingly senile and to be honest the damn thing was dead and she seemed incredibly confused as to why she was whining, let alone why she was holding a rabbit in her jaw. Besides the damn thing was dead, and she might have had a notion of presenting it to her vegetarian mother as some sort of tasty afternoon treat (however I am inclined to think that instinct overruled any sanity checks that she may or may not have had in place and at least its keeping her active).

And, to be honest, that's what cats are supposed to do. I might not like the fact that they do it, but then they don't like the fact that I don't pander to their each and every whim (with three of them who have contradictory needs and desires, it can be pretty tricky).

But this one was a big bugger. And it was still warm. She could have at least had the decency of eating the damn thing.


I calmed the rather confused and distressed cat down and then pondered what to do with the deceased bunny, that was only an inch or two smaller than the cat herself.

So, now, after some thought and joining the cat in whimpering and confusion, the rabbit is laying a cool shade (I retained some initiative at least with regards to heat, smell and decomposition) around the back of the garage waiting for my dad to come home and dispose of it in a more appropriate manner.

I felt a few twangs of guilt looking out from the kitchen window at the dead rabbit's relatives innocently bounding about in field opposite while Jim decomposed in our back garden. They've gone now, with the effective solution of just not looking at them.