Margarite’s cat Morris arrives at the backdoor with a newborn rabbit, broken-necked and still alive, and drops it at my feet. It blinks and looks up at me. A single bloody tricklet runs meekly down my one hand that lifts the rabbit’s head. Purring with a sashay while gliding under my other arm, Morris wants a scratch and then I wonder about the tolerant psychology of fingers that run so affectionately through the fur of a bobbing murdering machine and the bloodless movements of my own claws and teeth that have made kills of a different but no less painful kind. And how I needed strokes of assurance after that and that it probably would be easier to understand how toasters work rather than the quirks of killers and the wounds to their souls.
Gary Hunter
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