An hour or so before we were supposed to leave for Woodstock last Friday, Scott came in from the backyard, pale and wide-eyed, and said, “don’t look outside.” I knew immediately what had happened: Max caught and killed something. We’ve known all along that one day Max would catch something, and it wouldn’t be pretty. His last person told us that he had caught a few birds while she had him, and, after all, our very first glimpse of Max was him climbing a tree after a squirrel.
I wished whatever it was that had been caught a safe passing, and went back to packing for our trip. After a little while I heard the back door close and the washing machine start. Scott walked into the bedroom, sat down on the bed, and said, “It’s a good thing I love that little fucker so much,” then went on to tell me that it was a young rabbit that Max caught, and beyond that, he didn’t feel like reliving the experience. “Nature is not gentle,” I said.
Neither of us has any delusions about our animals; they are hunters, and that is what makes them dog and cat. It makes them different from us, sometimes in a profoundly unappealing way, but it is also what makes them who and what we love.
