myxomatosis

Feet in the sun, head just outside of the clouds, watching worlds fall past, feeling the heat rise slowly off the concrete. Country living brings beauty, nature, life and death. We were so happy at the arrival of a new little of tiny rabbits in the spring, although not ours, we watched them from the window, sometimes for hours, she would coo over them, so small and fragile, fur covering bones, covering tiny beatings hearts. Today i watched deaths black wings, swallow one of them whole, i did everything i could, i ran after it, like life lifting its limbs for one last breath. you’d think i’d seen a murder, well hadn’t i? Death fell back, exhausted by my noise and uninterested in a fight for this, tiny scrape. But all of my energy, and all of my fire, wasn’t enough, the tiny life was gone, extinguished, tufts of fur strewn beside, no blood yet, no sad look in its eyes, its eyes were glued shut, crusted over, streaming something, not blood. The farmers call it, Myxomatosis, the eyes fall to bacteria, the body shuts down, blind and alone, the rabbit dies. Heading for a spade, to move the past out from the mid afternoon sun, the flies, already humming their anthem. As i lift the space from the wall, another tiny life darts from its hiding place, into plain site, no eyes, just holes, where beautiful spheres once lived. Myxomatosis isn’t curable, and even then, the eyes have long been eaten out, by tiny teeth. The guide tells us, that a fast despatch, is the best medicine, but stay humane, keep your grit, hold on to your soul. No rifle, No gas, just a log for the fire at my side. It lets me get close, less than a meter from its eyeless shells, not running anymore, not scared of man, as disease, had shown this creature true pain, true suffering, and true horror, no man, or machine, could frighten this little soul any more.  We breathe together, in the summer sun, the sound of the flies, now drowning out the drone of traffic, both are now miles away, as it’s only us, asking questions, in the unbearable heat. I answer my own, that this is humane, this is right, this is best. But no one answers his, why me?, why this? why now? i’ve never harmed, or hurt, i had so much to see. I answer my final question, lift the log above my head, and with a small cry, more of pain, than of regret, i grow my own black wings, just for a moment, and take away the tiny life. 

A few minutes drift by, feeling the pulse in my wrist, like a drum now, beating louder, and louder, as i watch the final breaths be taken, the fur rising up and down, then up, then down, then up, then down, then nothing, the tiny paws go limp, the disease screams, and the pain stops.

A moment between myself and the vodka on my desk, i needed something, to make it change, make something change, nothing changed. The flies now in my house, in my ears, in my head. With that added courage, a garden fork makes their hearse, and i dump the bodies at the back of the garden, the foxes will take them, and live will go forward. Drinking slowly, the sound of the flies rises, drunk on the afternoon sun, standing still in the sunlight, the sound of the flies, rises.

Today has been strange

Morgan