Death of a Squirrel

Let's go for a walk, Daddy.
Three is a cute age. So's one.
Double-stroller's hard to hold
When you are over the hill.
Golden autumn evening
Deathly foreshadow.

The peace explodes with the
shrapnel of yelling from a
tiny brown purse.
Cats lost the skill but not the instinct
Tentatively jab at the noise.

Daddy, the hero, bullies away
The tiny big-eyed monsters,
But the victim is wounded, suffering.
I give the cats their prize.
Return to face the three-year-old-whys.
Because that is what cats do.
We don't always kill for food.

If I had a knife, I would have killed it.
I hate suffering.
I hate prolonged death.
I finished my walk with my own whys.

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