Sam is a killer (and careless with it)

I get fed up clearing up mutilated carcases (mice, voles, rabbits, birds) which our Killing Machine (sorry, Sam) insists on bringing in through the cat-flap every day.  This one, however, sort of got away.

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,

Unmistakeable sound of victory

Growling, howling, crying, mewling,

Like voices mixed together.

Pleased with himself

Or ashamed of what he’s done,

The hunter stands defiant

Astride the tiny bloody body. 

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,

He makes good his escape,

Leaving his trophy

To renew his hunt out in the field,

Driven by his nature,

A feral instinct to track and pounce

Upon smaller creatures than himself,

Warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,

Its eyes glittering in terror,

Body still warm,

Snout and tail intact,

Mangled limb, gory gash exposed,

Life-force expired,

Where it lies beneath the table. 

Only seconds left alone

To collect kitchen paper,

Rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,

Paraphernalia of removal and disposal

Of a corpse unwanted

Intended for a bin, not a burial. 

Spot now deserted, the body gone,

Disappeared elsewhere,

Smears of blood, body fluids,

Shining, wet, fresh,

Crawled away in agony and fear,

To hide and tremble

In place unknown

To look out, spying upon the world,

Watching, waiting to die,

A slow, lingering demise.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012