11th June 2024 . At the age of 12-13, I killed a snake. Whether or not it was poisonous seems to have been irrelevant. Snakes were snakes and they were not a good thing. Such was my thinking at the time. In my mind, whacking that snake was …
Whether or not it was poisonous seems to have been irrelevant. Snakes were snakes and they were not a good thing. Such was my thinking at the time.
In my mind, whacking that snake was a brave thing to do and it was important to me to be brave.
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Perhaps it was all part of the same concept that English children didn't cry.
It's not something I ever discussed with children of my generation, so it's only my opinion that it had to do with growing up after the war.
In London there was evidence everywhere of that awful time, when everyone had to be really brave. How could I ever measure up?
A feeble excuse for killing that poor snake, which proved nothing to anybody.
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Two years later when a snake spiralled toward me down my bedroom curtains, I yelled for my dad:
"What are you telling me for?" he asked.
That unfortunate creature was dispatched by the maid.
So much for being brave.
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After that time I was confronted with many things, but I never again had occasion to kill more than a mosquito and in more recent days, I have hesitated even to do that, having come to feel that I have no right to end life of any sort.
Killing those snakes weighs on my conscience, even now.
As a guardian to the many animals that came into my care, I have so often been faced with ending their lives to spare them suffering.
Surely it is the right thing to do? The kind thing? Wouldn't we choose to end our suffering?
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The truth is, we cannot know for sure what any other creature would choose. We say they don't understand death, yet they do know to be frightened.
It's something I torment myself over.
A couple of weeks ago a possum turned up one evening, by the groundhog burrow in front of the kitchen window.
It turned out to be an elderly animal that was almost totally blind, just as Mrs Plod had been.
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Mrs Plod expressed a liking for oranges, so we cut some up for the old possum, but he seemed just as happy with carrots and peanuts.
As well as being blind, the old boy appeared to limp.
All in all, he wasn't in the best of shape.
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The first day of the current heatwave, Grant came in to say that the old possum was up on the hill in the sun.
Grant felt the humane thing was to prevent the animal from suffering, as it was bound to.
Trapping a wild animal of that sort would cause it so much distress, so it was not an option.
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Following Grant back up the hill, I wanted to plead: "Don't!"
Instead, I turned and walked away feeling terribly conflicted and very sad.
Mrs Plod must have met her end during the winter after her appearance.
Should we have helped her out too?
We can't know that her end was more traumatic than it would have been if we had stepped in, or that she had any idea that she was suffering.
Animals don't think as humans do.
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The first animal I cried over wasn't even real.
Bambi was an awful film to take children to see.
It seems English children did cry sometimes.
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It is popularly believed than mankind has dominion over animals. That other species are less.
Yet with our vast intelligence, mankind cannot find a way to live in peace.
It's hard for me to believe that we are superior.
....
We are promised another severe thunderstorm this afternoon which will hopefully wash away the fug that seems to have overtaken my brain.
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