--by Mike Murray

For those of you who have long had suspicions about the state of my mental health -- and even more for those of you who have always been quite certain that I am nuts, lacking only the proof thereof -- I offer the following.  (Don't say I never gave you anything.)

One day during the late seventies I drove to work on a Saturday morning, as was my habit.  I was employed by Standard Oil (although I worked primarily on parent-company British Petroleum accounts), then housed in the Midland Building in downtown Cleveland.

The giant edifice that now graces Public Square had not yet been built; the Prudhoe Bay profits were rolling in though, and the company was pondering whether it would be better to erect a new office complex here, or one in Texas.

I was then working in accounting -- one of the first of many career dabblings.  I was an eager beaver, putting in extra time on evenings and weekends.  As I drove down Prospect Avenue on this particular "day off," I caught sight of something moving in the road.  It was a pigeon, flapping furiously.

After I pulled over to the curb, I cautiously approached.  The poor thing had been wounded somehow, and could not even gain its feet, much less fly.  It seemed to me that one of its wings had been broken.  It appeared frantic and in pain.

Now, I knew that the kindest thing to do would probably have been to use a large rock to put it quickly out of its misery.  But because there were no rocks around (and because I was not anxious to have the passerby witness me stomping the creature under the heel of my shoe -- they might not have understood), I followed my instinct.  I fetched a blanket from the trunk of my car.

I placed blanket and bird in the back seat and headed home.  Once there, I transferred the bird to an old dog crate.

The reaction I received from the receptionist when I telephoned the animal hospital for help is hard for me to describe.  It's safe to say that the woman was incredulous.  Beyond that, I can't say for sure if she was more amused or irritated that I was seeking treatment for -- what some people consider a pigeon to be -- a "flying rat."

Unrewarded by persistence (the woman refused to even put a veterinarian on the phone, it not being worth his or her time, given other priorities) I relented.  As I hung up the receiver, I was filled with dread.  There was no getting around it now:  The bird would have to be relieved of its suffering in the only way remaining.

It never came to that.

As I entered the spare bedroom to retrieve the creature, I was met with an unmistakable odor.  The odor of death.  While I had been arguing with the woman on the phone, the feathered critter was quietly expiring.  Perhaps it would have died anyway.  Or maybe my intended act of kindness so traumatized it that it died of fright.  I can't say.

In any case, I was spared the ordeal of killing it.  And it was spared the fate of being flattened by an automobile, or of being picked apart while still breathing by a predator.  I know, I know.  It's the way of the world.

It is natural that creatures get sick or hurt and then die, and that they serve as nourishment for other living things.  Everything that walks, crawls, swims, or flies makes use of other life to sustain itself.  Whether herbivore (vegetarian), carnivore (meat eater), or omnivore (a little of both), all beings require the fuel that is other things -- things that once also lived.

While diets can be supplemented by vitamins, minerals, and such, only things possessing caloric value (animals and plants --  both of them life forms) can interact with oxygen in hosts, metabolizing to yield the energy requisite for other life.

Besides, I eat beef, chicken, fish, and ham.  I sometimes wonder if I should.  But the plain fact is that I do.  And I also admit that I hunted a few times, years ago.  Though I don't anymore, I don't cast stones at those who do.  I eat meat; quibbling over who kills and butchers it seems hypocritical.

Actually, it does matter some.  When I hunted, for example, I was careful to kill humanely.  The military made a good marksman of me (I was better than most with an M-16 rifle; and I was best in my entire MP class -- a conglomerate of several Army and Marine units -- with a .45 caliber pistol).   Still, I took only "sure shots" when I pointed a .22 at a critter in the woods.  I made darned certain that I killed as quickly, as painlessly, as possible.

And I ate what I felled.  Deer were an exception.  Though I had several bucks dead in my sights years ago, I never managed to pull the trigger.  After having looked into their soulful eyes, it found I just didn't have it in me to take their lives, even if the endeavor would involve more than sport.  Even if it would result in nourishment.

Although I don't hunt anymore, I am reluctant to criticize those who do.  So long as I continue to eat meat I feel that I don't have the right.  I only hope that hunters kill quickly and cleanly, and that they harvest more than "racks" to serve as trophies for their den walls.

The day might yet come when I cease to eat meat.  For now, I rationalize eating it by shopping (through my wife, of course, who began the practice without any urging from me) for free-range chicken and the like.  It helps knowing that the animals that reach our dinner table were treated as decently as possible.

Besides, even if I became a vegetarian, I'd still be consuming things that once were alive.  Nothing can live absent the sacrifice of other living things.  Nothing.

Anyway, as I drove to an appointment this morning, I passed a troubling sight:  a cat was lying on a tree lawn, just beyond a curb.  It was surely struck and killed by a car or truck.  Traffic was heavy and I had no time to spare, and so I did not stop.  I wanted to scoop the critter up; I wanted to offer it more dignity in death than it knew as mere "road kill."  But circumstances didn't immediately allow it.

As I drove on, I concentrated on the cat's appearance.  It was dark gray, almost black.  It had white "booty" paws.  It was an adolescent:  not quite a kitten, not quite an adult.  And then I realized that I might have seen the cat before.

I observed one like it a couple of days ago, crossing my backyard patio.  The one I noticed then wore a collar.  So it probably had a home in the neighborhood.  I thought about going out and checking for tags and an address, but it scooted under the property fence and quickly disappeared.

Now it might be gone forever.

I am well aware that there are far sadder events in the world than the premature passing of a pigeon or a cat.  But I can't help it.  It disturbs me whenever I see an animal in distress.  I suppose it's because I tend to view them as childlike.  They frequently rely upon the kindness of humans, and they are too often let down by us.

Most especially when it comes to domesticated creatures, we should fully shoulder our responsibility.  We make such animals tame, we make them dependent.  When we subsequently walk away from them in their time of need, we are more than unkind.  We are downright cruel.

I remember driving along an interstate highway in West Virginia a few years ago with my wife and mutt (Maggie), on our way to a vacation along a mountainous area of the state that borders Virginia.  An emaciated dog ambled along in an adjoining pasture, clearly hungry and alone.  I wanted to stop, but I was hemmed in by traffic that was moving along at too fast a clip.  And, in all probability, it would have fearfully resisted any approach by me.  It had the look of an animal that had experienced little, if any, human kindness.

The image of that poor soul has haunted me ever since.

And like so many other people, I found the images of post-hurricane, Gulf-region animals to be deeply disturbing.  The sight of so many abandoned creatures, forlornly standing atop flooded buildings, wailing for help -- as videographers paddled on by was almost more than I could bear.

I realize that humans are the priority.  But it shouldn't be an either / or proposition.  Helping one species needn't preclude helping others.  Besides, humans will almost always attract the concern and attention -- and the subsequent help -- they deserve.  It is less often so with animals.

So later today I will go out and tend to the cat (if it is still there).  I would go now, since I've returned from my day's excursions.  But my wife isn't home yet and... well, see, it's like this:  Our Janna (a Rottweiller mix) suffers from separation anxiety.

While I do, of course, leave her home alone at times, I try to minimize the episodes.  On days like today  when she's already endured one period of isolation, I try to spare her a second.  I can hear some of you out there.  "See, I told you:  he's nuts!"

Maybe I am.

Copyright © 2005 Michael F. Murray       All rights reserved.