Yesterday I prised a dead rat from the chicken coop. Not ‘prized’. I did not go round showing everyone, saying, “Check out my great dead rat, how cool is this?”
No sadly, by ‘prised’ I mean pulled at its little legs and wiggled its limp body until it came unstuck from the position in which it had expired, wedged in the hole it had gnawed in the floor of the coop.
It was a fairly delicate operation as I really didn’t want to up the gross out factor by ripping off its back legs with overzealous pulling, so I was taking my time and trying to think of other things.
I did actually feel quite sorry for the greedy little bastard, whose gluttony meant that the hole he had created before he feasted on chicken feed, was not sufficient for him to squeeze his fat little belly through on the return trip. Trapped, he was doomed to accept his fate, probably contemplating how he really shouldn’t have gone back for thirds.
I’m pretty sure that’s how I’m going to go. Maybe not that exact scenario (not ruling it out mind), but some variation on the Elvis death theme, killed by my own gluttony. I predict I’ll probably take a fatal tumble reaching for the biscuit tin, or possibly go up in flames in a tragic vodka/fondue accident.
I’m pretty sure I’ll only have myself to blame. Bit like the rat situation. The fella’s only here because I decided it’d be lovely to have chickens. The rat would probably have been in the vicinity anyway, but it wouldn’t have died embedded in my chicken coup, thereby making it my problem to clear him away. Had he lived, he could have sued me. Probably would have, rats are notoriously litigious.
Meanwhile ratty was proving a bit hard to budge, giving me plenty of time to contemplate every meaning of the word ‘disgust’*.
Like how parenthood can temporarily numb your disgust sensors, making you capable of cleaning up another human being’s faeces/vomit/snot without a second thought.
This reminded me of a housemate who was disgusted by pretty much everything around her, she conveniently couldn’t face dirty dishes or hair in the plug hole. However her overactive gag reflex didn’t seem to stop her liberally providing blow jobs to any fella who bought her a bag of chips. When she eventually started working in an old people’s home, I was amazed that she didn’t have a problem bathing, changing and generally cleaning up after old bodies. But it seems that disgust can be a luxury one can dispense with when you just have to get on with it because no one else is going to do it for you (or you really want some chips).
Is disgust a luxury, like chocolates, or champagne? Possibly, but I’m not adapting my Christmas list accordingly. Nowadays I may not have time for disgust, but I’ll always make time for chocolates. I bet even facing death, if you’d have offered this rat a ‘wafer thin mint’, he’d have taken it, even knowing it would seal his fate. That’s how I ended up thinking about food whilst bagging up a rat’s corpse and slinging it in the bin. How gross is that?
*At first I misspelled it and mentally contemplated ‘discussed’ for a while, but I soon got back to disgust via R4’s Moral Maze, specifically Melanie Phillips