wild things

The theater I'm working at has volunteers to do different tasks such as running the sound board, lights, fold programs and sell tickets, etc. I'm one of these volunteers (I'm running projections of ghost images, water, fire...), but most of the others are from the Junior League. I don't want to say they're weird -- because they could say the same about me -- but we don't have a lot in common, I'll just put it that way.

The play we're working on features a Yankee soldier character who was a woman masquerading as a man for most of her short life (loving the wives of the soldiers before she ended up in battle). One evening recently I entered the booth where three of us volunteers and the stage manager (A5*) do our jobs. The two JL ladies were asking A5 why a woman was playing the part of then soldier and then stumbled over the word she gave them to explain it: trans-gender. There was more to the conversation but I don't want to go into it.

Tonight, the same two of them were in the projection booth alone, chatting as they do whenever it's allowed. A5 and I were in the front of the theater when they came running out saying, "There's a bat loose in the theater. Or a bird or something!" I had seen a grasshopper crawling up the white scrim that covers the front of the stage before I left the booth. I decided against trying to capture it and let it out. When I told them this, they practically spat, "A grasshopper. It's not a grasshopper!" Mind you, they weren't being nasty, they're just naturally dramatic. A5 and I looked for the flying thing but couldn't find it; A5 said, "Oh, well."

Not long after that I was in the booth with the JL ladies and the grasshopper started flying around the house lights dipping into the opening between booth and theater. The two ladies were very skittish, screaming, "Get it!" Before I was able to catch it and take it outside, one of them said, "But you can't kill it; it's bad luck to kill a grasshopper." The other said, "Why? They eat my plants; I kill them." Only slightly annoying. I was glad I didn't have to talk about my no-kill policy. "You mean not even ants or mosquitoes or cockroaches?" (Talk about weird.)

On the way home after the show tonight, I turned down Comal Street, it runs for two or three blocks uninterrupted between the two sides of the cemetery. About a block in, what looked like a cat lying in the other lane turned its eyes toward my headlights, and so it felt like he was looking into my eyes. A quick thought of "Why is a cat sleeping in the middle of the road?" was replaced by "It's been hit!" I saw a streak of blood down its coat. I slowed, then sped up, cursing, crying, not knowing what to do.

I came home, came into the house not really crying but more like moaning with few tears. S1 was flossing, getting ready for bed early because he'd had a long day. I told him I didn't know what to do, if I should run over him to put him out of his misery or try to take him to an emergency animal hospital (which sounded frightfully expensive). Maybe I could just pay to have him put to sleep.

S1 finished brushing and put on his shoes while I gathered up the cardboard carrying case I'd just bought a couple of days ago to take Timmy to the vet in and a rag towel, in case we needed to pick he injured animal up. (I should say in case I needed to pick him up; S1 wouldn't have been as likely to do so.)

When we got back to the scene of the accident, things had changed. The animal was still there, and it was dead. And it was a red fox. A beautiful fox. I don't know if I saw the other side of it when I drove by before and saw the blood or if I imagined the blood, but she was laid out beautifully and peacefully in the middle of the road, her coat unmarred, a possible dent in her temple, which probably means she couldn't have lasted long after getting hit. It brings tears to my eyes to think that I saw her die, or looked into her eyes moments before she died. There's something sad and beautiful about that.

I wanted to move her off to the grass on the side of the road but S1 wouldn't let me. He didn't physically restrain me but he warned me sternly several times and I relented. I feel bad that I didn't do it. I forgot I had taken the rag towel until just this moment. I'm not sure if S1's fear was about me contracting something from the fur or wounds or that the fox might come to life and bite me, but it feels a improper to me that I didn't move her.

I'm glad she was dead, though. I'm glad she wasn't writhing about with a broken leg or some other awful thing. Then what would I do? A wild animal. I know it would be a bad idea to try to rescue an injured wild animal, but I'm not sure I would have been able to help myself.