Killer Mom

A cold snap was threatening, and I had just brought one potted plant indoors when Jack yelled, "There's a bird in the house!" All of a sudden, a second sparrow flew from the pot, where apparently the couple had been building a nest. I waved the broom at the first bird and it flew outside. The second bird was scared, flying around in circles. Spotting its reflection in a mirror, it flew straight into the glass, not once, but three times. The third time stunned it, and I was able to grab it, wrap it in a dish towel, and carry it outside. 

"Wow, that was wild," I said. 

"When you grabbed the broom, I thought you were gonna kill the bird," Jack replied. 

I was aghast. "Why would you think that? I was just trying to get him out of the room." 

"Well," he said, "you do have a history." 

It's unfair that an unfortunate reputation can attach itself to a nice person. Yes, I have killed a number of animals. In each case, it was accidental, I swear. 

Once our rescued cat, pregnant before we obtained her, gave birth to a litter of kittens that liked to play in the driveway. How could I have known that three of them had climbed onto the van's back tire on the passenger side where I couldn't see them? When I backed down the driveway - well, you get the picture. 

We found someone's pet rabbit in our backyard. Late for an appointment, I put the rabbit in our tender trap cage, on the unshaded patio. While we were away, the sun climbed to its zenith. When we returned home, the rabbit was barely breathing and died before our eyes. Of heatstroke, no doubt. 

Once two baby birds fell out of their nest and I couldn't figure out how to get them back into the nest up so high. I took a small margarine tub, filled it with grass and dryer lint for a makeshift nest, and nailed it as high up on the tree as I could reach by climbing up on the ladder. I picked up the babies with a soft cloth and placed them in the tub, hoping that their mom would find them. It never occurred to me to poke holes in the bottom of the tub. It rained that night. When Jill climbed up the next day to check on the birds, she found them drowned. 

Then there was Purdy, a mockingbird we rescued when Jill was about 10. She fed Purdy with an eye dropper and he grew and thrived, until it was obvious that he needed to be set free. Jill held Purdy to her cheek one last time. At the door, she held out her hand and released the bird, calling, "Bye, Purdy - I love you!" And our cat came out of nowhere, leapt up and snatched the bird in midair. "Purdy!" Jill screamed. Then she turned and gave me The Look - the How Could You Do This To Me, You Horrible Parent look. 

I don't see why I should've been held responsible for each of those unfortunate accidents. But I was present each time, I did have some connection to each death, so now I am the official family animal killer. That's a reputation that's hard to erase from your kids' memory banks. So after the last of our beloved Keeshond dogs died of old age, we didn't adopt any more pets. Jack feeds his raccoons on the patio every night, but I keep my distance. But isn't it ironic: when our girls go out of town, who do they ask to take care of their dogs? Killer Mom, that's who.

(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 12-02-06)