Coffee and Murder

There's nothing like taking a life to ruin an otherwise perfectly nice evening.

I murdered tonight. I've done it before, and I suspect I'll do it again. But tonight murder was not in the plan. Tonight was about freedom. It was a night to treat myself, to be alone with the thoughts and voices in my head. The murder that followed the treasure hunting, coffee sipping, and escape into the alternate reality of books put a real nasty kink in my mood.

The dark night enveloped me with warm, spring air that dissolved into rain and slid down the windshield. I was alright with the rain. Early April in Canada has too often been bitterly cold and altogether too attached to its winter-long stock of snow. So rain, especially in combination with plus-zero temperatures, is an old friend to be welcomed home. I pressed the corner of the chocolate expresso brownie I'd saved for the ride home to my tongue and savored the rich, melting sugar. I set it aside, and focused on rounding the curve. The machine in front of me seemed unsure of itself in the wet blackness, and crept over the dotted center line. Apparently that driver didn't have a daddy that taught them the trick of using the white side lines to guide oneself in case of visibility problems. Fortunately, I did have one, and steered easily through the curve (letting up on the accelerator just before the start of the curve, gently pressing on it again at the middle of the arc, and then pushing forward with careful speed to finish out the round; Daddy's voice echoed from memory in my mind, just as if he were sitting in the van seat beside me, white knuckled, but calmly coaching me with the intricate details that he'd always used to navigate our lives). I then shifted lanes to move around the nervous, slow-moving vehicle in front of me, relieved to leave it behind. I relaxed again.

And just like that, I was no longer a woman enjoying a first evening away from my nine month old daughter, but a slaughtering she-beast in a killing machine slashing its way through a sanctuary that did not belong to me.

The creature darted from the natural, grassy environment onto a strange, hard substance that he had never experienced before. The ground felt rough beneath his feet, and offered none of the safe shadows he was accustomed to using for his nightly scavenging. He ran on the unfamiliar surface, sure only that it must end and give way to the nourishing, hidden feasts he required of the land to sustain him. But the bizarre, ungiving earth did not end, and worse, the moon began to move rapidly in different directions above him. It confused the creature, and he hesitated only briefly before instinct assured him he was in imminent danger. He turned to run back to the brushing softness of the safety he'd unwittingly left behind.

The black and white form flashed clearly in my headlights as a recognizable, wild delight for a fraction of a second before the inevitable crucifixion. I mowed the skunk down. It disappeared beneath the killing machine I operated; the sickening thump under the back seat confirmed the murder. I screamed, and then moans slipped down my cheeks in tears.

The very haste and pathways that I deemed necessary as a modern-day human were the very things that had transformed me into a barbaric killer.

Like I said, I've killed before. Sometimes even on purpose. As a zookeeper, I often played my hand in the great circle of life. It is something of a paradox that one called an animal caretaker actually needs to kill some animals in order to feed others. In addition to assisting the captive food chain, I participated in mercy killings, more gently referred to as euthanasia. Sometimes it was necessary to bid farewell to an aging animal whose quality of life gave way to suffering. Other times it was an animal with life-threatening injuries or an illness that no treatment could improve. One way to look at it might be that part of a keeper's job is to sign the Do Not Resuscitate forms for the animals in their care. I can attest that causing death for any reason is not a pleasant part of the job. Fortunately, there were more often cases of assisting in the recovery and rehabilitation of wildlife than that of the life-ending type.

How many times have we heard people say with absolute surprise, "That deer (raccoon/cat...) came out of Nowhere!"?


Now try this: Imagine yourself stepping out your back door one early, fresh, spring evening. You've fired up the barbeque for the season's first juicy, grilled burgers. You've already got the tomatoes sliced, the lettuce separated, and the ketchup, mustard, mayonaise, and pickles are set out on the picnic table. Your loved ones might be sitting at that table waiting for you to join them for conversation and fun. You walk across the yard towards the cooler that holds that ice cold beer you've been looking forward to all afternoon. You know that it's going to taste so much better sipped outside by the firepit than it ever could sitting at the kitchen counter looking at a view of snowdrifts out the window. The scent of sizzling charcoal, new grass, and fallen rain underline the song of frogs croaking in the fields. The hanging laterns stretch cozy light across the patio and enhance the moonlight. "Ah!" you say, breathing in the deep pleasure of being alive in this moment, because you feel more fully energized right now than you have in months. You've taken several steps forward when suddenly everything goes wrong.


You're blinded by what you can only guess is the lanterns exploding, even though you know there's no logic in that because the lamps are electric, not kerosene. A roaring noise blocks out the comforting sounds of the voices across the patio, the gentle croaking of the hidden frogs, and the hiss of fire under the barbeque hood. You swing your head left and right, trying to figure out where you are in this confusing new reality. An instinctual fear for your life thumps like a jackhammer in your heart, though you don't understand why your home is suddenly the most frightening place on earth. You don't know if you should run towards your loved ones; you aren't even sure you know what direction that is anymore. You think it might be wiser to return to the house you just left, but can't be sure that's the better choice either. What you do know for sure is that you can't just stand there because Something BAD is happening! You hesitate, just for a second, while all sense of contentment, appetite, and the utter peace you were feeling is wiped clear with terror. You turn to go back to the moment before the bad feelings, blindness and deafness assaulted you, and there's a shape, bigger than you've ever seen, looming over you. All you can think is...

"It just came out of Nowhere!"

Yeah, so I cry, even when I hit a skunk in his home. It just reminds me of how inconsiderate I can be, what with my big feet, my map, and the fumes that I sputter about in my quest for, well, overindulgent calories, well-versed wisdom, and witless freedom.

So, am I the only person on earth who weeps over slaughtering a skunk? Is there anyone else out there who feels we're truly the ones who are "coming out of nowhere," and not so much the other way around? I'm listening...