In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Embrace the Ick.”
His first kill was a piglet.
He was a puppy, less than a year old. I did not hear any barking or struggle, except one short squeal. He took one bite on its neck and waited next to it until my husband got there. The prey was about the same size as he was, my husband said.
We buy our food at stores, don’t hunt and did not teach him how to kill. It must be an instinct. Since that first incident, we have encountered the victims– mongooses, birds, mice, and kittens.
I used to be able to simply call out when I saw something immobile in the yard or smelled a decay underneath the house, and my husband took care of them.
I now try to keep my dogs on leashes so I wouldn’t have to meet deceased face to face, but have had to entomb some, luckily small ones.
One day, at the store where I worked, somebody found a mouse outside. It was staggering on the welcome mat in front of the door. Before anybody could get to it, a man who was about to enter the store saw it and kicked it. I had gloves on, went outside to where it lay, picked it up by its tail and placed it in the plastic bags. It was dead, or soon-to-be-dead, I am not sure. We threw the package in the trash bin outside.
People looked at me differently after that. Some thought I was a hero, and some were not sure what to make of me.
My boy, however, looks at me with awe and admiration every time I pick up his offerings.