Earlier today I posted about the... incident and begged for help.
Aaron called soon after my post, and I told him what happened (including the part of my soul JUMPING OUT OF MY BODY when I discovered the incident).
I mismashed his advice with everyone else's; I put on my super-thick rubber gloves, nested two freezer bags inside of one another, inverted it and grabbed the trap by the corner, then pulled the bags back over the incident. I never had to touch it; but boy-oh-boy, did I ever get a good look.
Just so everyone knows, the incident was very smart. Its little arm was outreached very far and I'm surprised that it lost its life, not just an arm.
My dear friend Kim, who I have known for years, unknowingly (perhaps, actually, knowingly) guilted me into treating the incident with respect and remorse.
Tonight after I put the boys to bed, I put on my leather gardening gloves, grabbed a shovel and searched for an appropriate place to bury the incident (hey, it's better to call it the incident instead of it's original name, Little Fucker. Have some respect for the deceased). It took four tries before I found its proper burial ground (ie, the place where I could actually dig a hole deep enough in the dark, where the kids usually don't play).
So I told the incident that I'm sorry its life is over; I hope it finds peace, solace and top-quality, gourmet, gluten-free chocolate in its next life. May its next life be happy, fulfilled and more peaceful than its old life.
And I said it all with a straight face and no sarcastic remarks. And I meant it.
[By the way, I was going to bury the dead black bird too, but it was gone. May you have a wonderful next life as well bird.]