Simon Shrub woke up inspired. It was a beautiful, sun-soaked morning at 110th Street and the day vibrated with life. Deciding to take advantage, Simon planned his journey to work at the teashop and bookstore to include a walk through Central Park close by his apartment. He enjoyed the park very much, especially on beautiful mornings. Today, Simon Shrub took his coffee to-go, headed for the Conservatory Gardens, and would literally stop to smell the roses.
As he began his walk, a mother reading a book to her pre-school children caught his eye. It was a scene he had witnessed thousands of times, but today it whispered to him the promise of life and the future. Simon thought quietly to himself about his own childhood. He thought of the stories that once ignited his own imagination and was filled with the warmth of good memories.
With the Conservatory Gardens just in sight, a new scene interrupted his gaze. Ten yards in front of him lay an unidentifiable, struggling lump. It stopped Simon in his tracks. Creeping slowly forward, he came to the slow realization that this small, struggling lump was covered in fur, had a tail, and was undoubtedly nearing the end of its life. Life is never decidedly easy for a street rat, one can imagine, but this one had certainly seen better days. Simon stepped carefully around the twitching rat with every intention of going on about his day. He was halted by the smallest whisper of a squeak. What is it about vocalizations that give an animal humanity? People who would never hunt deer will go fishing without the first hesitation. If a fish could bark, would the waters suddenly be safer?
Certain that the small rat had just uttered the words, “help me,” Simon again approached the twitching creature. Although he feigned thought for several moments, Simon Shrub knew immediately that there was only one way to resolve this rat’s struggle. You don’t exactly scoop up a street rat and rush it to the veterinary office for the latest, most advanced diagnostic and surgical care. A pit had opened up in his stomach.
Simon was not totally uneducated in the killing of animals. He had seen a television show dedicated to hunting large game (this was a far cry from gunning down a rhinoceros from a helicopter). Employees had disposed of successful mousetraps. In one awful instance, Simon had even witnessed the needless slaughter of a pigeon at the hands of some unruly schoolboys. However, with the exception of swatting a few houseflies, Simon had never taken the life of another creature into his own hands. His time had come. Thank goodness it was still cool enough outside that he was wearing heavy shoes.
His heart raced. His skin was awake with goose bumps. His hair stood on end. Scenes from horror movies played in his head, only now he was starring as the merciless killer. He looked around for witnesses. He was eager to get this horrible event behind him, knowing that at any moment the poor rat could utter another squeak, begging him to relent and grant a few more moments of precious life. Simon said a quick prayer, gave the rat his last rites, and raised his leg. He brought swift death by way of size nine Dockers. There was the inevitable crunch, but the rat chose not to utter any last words.
Simon was relieved. He glanced around, making sure there were no witnesses. He saw the gardens in front of him, the group of children behind him, and this terrible scene immediately beside him. He shuttered at the awful poetry he had just created: gruesome death surrounded by abundant life. He was very envious of the children and wished to be lost in their same story.
Picking up his bags, Simon quickly fled the scene and made his way back to the street. The clean up would be someone else’s burden. He would skip his walk through the park today. Suddenly, he was not in the mood to absorb any more life. Simon may be a few minutes early to the teashop and bookstore, but he will be taking a cab.
