Blog written by David Sandford [GreatDaney]
Published in General-Culture at 20:55 on Sunday, 27th September 2009
"...If we don't remember,
the dead will rise again,
to kick our fucking heads in,
for not remembering..."
a dying / dead pigeon at a bus stop
I got the bus home from the pub.
While I was waiting, I had to witness a portion of the death throes of a living creature. This creature happened to be a pigeon (as you may have worked out).
I looked at it for a while, watched it twitching. Watched it try to move. Pitiful thing.
What it needed was someone to smash the shit out of it... "goodbye, farewell, good night, you've been a great audience," ...POW.
I couldn't finish it off. I wanted to, but I couldn't get the idea of messing it up out of my mind. I wanted something substantial, like a BRICK or a SPADE; a proper tool. Something that would do some real damage. Something that if they announced tomorrow that we were at war with the pigeons you would feel comfortable taking into battle. A fucking flame thrower or something... (bazooka?).
Instead I had my hands and feet.
I have an image in my mind now of stamping on it, catching it with a glancing blow and leaving it even more twitchy and in pain - or slightly missing my stamp, pounding down on a wing or a leg. I couldn't risk this. But this slight risk of my own discomfort left the pigeon in possible agony.
There's also the romantic(?! pigeon... romantic?) in you that thinks it might just be a bit dozy, having a bad one, one too many cigarette butts for the day or something. But this is bullshit. It's fucked. And now it's your fault.
I have a friend who, when confronted with a dying bird, picked it up and wrung its neck. This is too hardcore for me. I don't question the method (as he was sure of it), I just question my ability to do it! Too personal for me, too much like I wanna look it in the eye and say "I'm the mother fucker who's gonna kill you, start praying punk."
I also had an image of cars driving by and seeing me on the pavement, wild eyed, crazed, raving, jumping up and down on the carcass... "Peter... can you see that guy? What's he... oh God... oh sweet merciful Christ!"
I had a dream sometime ago that's always stuck with me, I think it's partially to blame for this predicament. I am in the kitchen with my Mum, we are surrounded by kittens (sounds gay at the moment I know - just wait).
My mum is going crazy, screaming at me to kill these kittens (see?) with a green bean slicer thing. In the dream I have no choice but to do it. I try to pull the kittens through this slicer as quickly as I can, to make the suffering as short as possible. But whenever I do it, they get chopped up into bits and somehow stay alive. They are in pieces on the floor, but continue to cry and squeal at me, I go round as quickly as possible trying to finish them off, but it just gets worse and worse.
One thing is for sure, if I ever have to kill anything in the future I wont be using one of these slicers.
Returning to the pigeon story... I got on the bus.
Tags: dead pigeon, killing a bird, finishing off a bird (haha)
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