Sometimes a small thing happens that makes you wonder about how you handle things, and just how deep the handling of them goes. It may not be something as large as suffering from a disease or losing a loved one. It can be miniscule, unexpected, and jarring to a level that you hadn’t suspected you could be jarred.

Macarthur is a hunter. A small cat, he looks like a kitten but brings down prey his size. He is wiry, not very loving, and built for speed and for killing. He does this with aplomb, and with the assistance of a few other cats in the neighbourhood, he rids us of our moles, voles, and mice. I don’t love that he does this, but it’s what cats do.

Late Saturday I looked outside the bi-fold doors and saw all the animals in a bit of a ruckus. I was dealing with a very tetchy Nick and Nora, both of whom were testing me within an inch of my breaking limit (and once nearly beyond it). But while separating the two and dealing with the tantrums and tears, there was something about the events outside that had me hooked.

I opened the doors, feeling the chill of the September dusk setting in. The animals – sensing my arrival – flew away in different directions in that omniscient way that they have when they know they’re about to be in trouble. I stepped out onto the grass to see, in all directions, heaps of feathers flying around. I knew at once what happened – Mac had pulled down a bird and had killed it. It wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

I walked to the largest pile of feathers and there it was – a large grey bird. One wing bent at an angle that a wing most certainly shouldn’t be bent. Over half of its body was plucked clean of feathers, and blood was seeping out onto the remaining feathers. A quick look told me immediately that the bird was still alive and in a state of sheer panic and terror. I didn’t need a second look to know that there was no chance that it was going to survive.

And I was torn. I couldn’t bring it in because to be brutally honest, I have a deep-seated phobia of wild birds. They’re beautiful when they’re far away, but get them close and all I can think of are parasites, mites, and disease. I couldn’t leave it out here, terrified, in shock, dying. It had already been suffering via a brutal way to die. Ignoring it seemed to be the heart of cruelty.

I called Alastair out to help me assess. While he came outside I found a heavy woven bag to try to wrap the bird in, to try to make it more comfortable. As I came near with it, the bird jumped around in a panic, its broken wing moving uselessly in an angle that it shouldn’t have done. Anytime I got even a little near its breathing went fast, its fight-or-flight serving it well.

“The bird isn’t going to make it,” Alastair said quietly.

“I know,” I replied panicky. “I’m just trying to make it more comfortable.”

He gestured towards the grass, thick and lush and in need of a mowing. “I would have thought being here in the grass was the most comfortable place for it.”

He was right. I put the bag down. Making the bird more frightened would serve no real purpose, it had maybe been through enough. Leaving it alone to its own devices would be the most calming solution there could be.

I walked back into the house to where Nick and Nora were waiting, watching.

“Bird tired,” Nora proclaimed. “Bird needs a sleep.”

And this is where many mothers would differ from me. Many parents would kneel down, reach out for their children, and correct them. Perhaps this is an opportunity. Maybe they won’t lie to their kids. Maybe many parents would explain about death, about this being the end.

There is time enough to learn about death, I think. They are young. They are sensitive. They are already prone to nightmares, Nick waking up screaming once or twice a week, screaming his sister’s name, asking in sheer terror where she is. Introducing the idea that something can go away forever is not the kind of mother I want to be right now. Not right now.

“The bird is tired,” I replied gravely. “It does need a sleep.”

“You put bird to bed, Mummy,” Nick instructed.

“I will, baby,” I promised. “I will.”

We kept watch over the bird, dying in the grass. We kept the animals away from it. We watched as it used its beak – the only working part of its body – to drag itself towards a hollybush nearby. I couldn’t stop watching it move itself towards the nearby bushes. It seared itself into my memory as the most grotesque and beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I know I should have wrung its neck, put it out of its misery.

(Years ago someone made me a two-way promise to help him end his life if he should ever be suffering.)

I know I should have ended the bird’s life instead of prolonging its pain.

(And when I turned up at the hospital, he reminded me of that promise.)

I couldn’t have done it. I knew I couldn’t have done it.

(I couldn’t do it all those years ago, and instead he died surrounded by people that weren’t me.)

We watched the bird make it into the bushes. It was bath and bedtime at that point. We took the twins upstairs for our normal routines. When I came back downstairs it was dark and, grabbing a light I went outside to check on our friend.

He had died peacefully, tucked into himself under the protection of a hollybush, surrounded by fallen geranium petals.

I got the woven bag back out, wrapped him up, and put him to bed as I’d promised the twins. I was sorry for my cruel cat. I was sorry for my cowardice then, just as I was sorry for my cowardice those years ago in a Dallas hospital.

And two days on, I can see with absolute clarity as it dragged its way to the bushes, looking for sanctuary.

I can’t help but feel I missed a trick. There was something more I should have done, even if just for a mangy grey bird that are two to the dozen in our neighbourhood. I can’t stop feeling that there was something I should have learned from in it all, and didn’t.

-S.