Fraidy dragged in another tattered butterfly (yellow and black mostly) and left it fluttering on the kitchen floor the other day. As I’ve done before, I maneuvered it out the window without trying to brush its delicate wings. When I last saw it, it was clinging to a branch. I doubt they can survive long after being damaged. What’s their lifespan anyway? But that’s not the half of it.
For weeks, at least, the cat has been sniffing around this big wicker basket in the kitchen, where we keep the phone books and some stray place-setting gear. We thought maybe she was pining for the mouse that briefly led her a merry stakeout before giving up the ghost. Today B noticed a lot of flies in that area. Apparently they’d hatched… from maggots… in the fur of the dessicated rat she found in there.
Oh, man, I can hardly describe the visceral disgust we both had, thinking about removing that thing. As usual, I did the disgusting part, actually removing the carcass (mostly fur, it seems, and some horrible bug coccoon things clinging to it), while B did the elaborate cleaning and disinfecting part.
At least it wasn’t as big as the dead rat I found on the lawn a month or so ago. At least our vicinity is relatively vermin-free. I didn’t feel the kind of pity for this rat as I did for the mouse we briefly named Harry for his short-lived string of Houdini-like escapes. I imagine we can thank Walt Disney for that arbitrary distinction. Regardless, death is yucky.