24/01/2023
I found a dead baby rat on the ground this morning during chores. It’s not uncommon but always sad.
As I picked her up, she blinked her eyes and wrapped tiny, chilled little rat hands around my finger, clinging for comfort. Her body was cold and stiff. I walked inside to find my gentle, merciful euthanasia supplies and still she held on. Just don’t let me go. It’ll be okay. She clung.
So instead I grabbed a heating pad and a soft blanket and warmed her. She began to move around a little and I fed her a little formula. As I did, she held tightly, arms around my thumb. She didn’t bite or squeak, just didn’t want to be alone.
She perked up, which is when I realized that while the rest of her body regained movement, the hind legs dragged. I laid her down and went to figure out a dose of steroids, maybe this was just an injury we could fix, and when I returned to pick her up, she took her last breaths in my hand.
These are the cursed hopeful thoughts of a rescuer. Even her own mother, who she was probably still weaning from, cut her losses and walked away, realizing the futility of her daughter’s situation. If we were smarter or a little more guarded, maybe we would cut our losses too.
Lately, just about everything happening everywhere makes me furious. I’ve quit writing, quit sharing, I’m tired. Sometimes it feels like kindness is a liability, and performing it makes you a target.
Somehow amidst the hopelessness of it all, we keep begging for miracles within the framework of a mean and seemingly heartless world, and sometimes all we can offer is a hand to hold on the way out. Bye, baby. You were hoped for.
Story Credits: Andrea Davis