The Lights Go Down in the Forest
There was only one thing made a sound like that, and it was death. This wasn’t a mouse-death, nor a chipmunk-death (with two hunting cats around, there is plenty of that small pleading going on, day in, day out): it was a bigger animal; whatever was going down was doing so just over the lip of the hill, beneath my deck; and only one cat was indoors.
In the time it took you to read the first four words of that paragraph, I was already out the sliding door, leaning over the deck, wondering if my male hunter was no longer predator, but prey. What a terrible shrieking, sound of struggle.
In the time it took to read the first three words of the paragraph above, I was pounding my hands on the deck rail, and shouting. “HEY…!! HEY!!!”
Silence. Whatever misery had been taking place had either been aborted or completed.
In the time it took to read the first two words of the paragraph above, I had spun back through the house, grabbed headlamp and car keys, and run out the front door. The thought (there wasn’t nearly as much “thought” as there are words in this post) was that with a little light, I could maybe scoop up what might be still alive, and… well, it wouldn’t be the first animal I watched die.
I spun the wheel and headed down the driveway. From below, I could point the car into the abandoned roadway that lead up to the house, light the brush where the shriek had originated and silence now weighed heavy.
In the time it took to read the first word of the paragraph above, I hit the brakes. There crossing in front of me was my black ball of fanged fur, Shadow the Cat, wondering what all the commotion was about.
Something lost its life tonight. But I wouldn’t have to find it, comfort it, bury it, or explain it to my kids.
