I have been picking up various dead animals lately. (You thought I was going to say men, didn’t you?) Now that the weather is nice and the critters in my neighborhood are active, my cats have been getting in touch with their inner predator. Lately it has been birds. I found the hind end of a mouse with its tail in the air by the back door. Although these small carrion are a nuisance, I prefer them dead than alive.

One day a year or so ago my cat came in the cat door with a bird in his mouth that was still squawking for help. When I realized what was making that sound, I kinda lost my cool. I didn’t want a bloody bird dying in my house. I didn’t want to touch it. My kids still use that as my extreme hysteria reference point, as in “Mom screamed, but not as bad as with the bird.” There was even a school friend of my son’s in the house who will reference it when I see him.

Not long after that incident I found a shredded bird on my deck. My friend Evelyn was sitting at my kitchen table when I came in, grossed out by the mess I couldn’t ignore.

“It’s times like this when I wish there was a man in this house to clean up the dead birds,” I complained in disgust.
“Believe me,” my wise friend said soothingly, stilling my arm with her hand. “It’s much easier to clean up your own dead birds.”

I think maybe she was right. I’ve gotten better at it. I don’t scream anymore but I still make a face when I pick up the carcass of whatever gift my cats have adoringly brought to me. I’m just glad the critters are dead. I guess I’m glad I clean them up myself. And I don’t step outside without looking down first.