Sorry for the rather odd title for this post. But it’s almost three in the morning here in humid ol’ Miami, and I can’t get to bed. I’ve been positively furious the last few hours. Just thinking about life, which lives matter, and which don’t.

I’m about to sound like a sentimental hippie. So if that bugs you, by all means. Scram.

My mom has a very sensitive nose, and the last few days she’s been telling me “I smell something awful in the backyard”. I’ve ignored her for the most part, because- let’s face it -she’s a mom, and she always has something to complain about (no? just my mom? okay, moving on, then). I really didn’t pay much attention to her. Until I went outside to do laundry, and opened up the housing with the laundry machines out back.

That smell. It was an awful, but “natural” smell that I couldn’t put my finger on. But I’ve had a whiff of it before-

Tiny. The poor, dead kitten. I just knew, that there was a dead kitten behind the machines. Gut instinct, and motherly need to save the critter that was long gone, I hurried inside and yelled for someone to help me. Like I wasn’t already looking positively insane at this point, I told my mom’s boyfriend that there was a dead kitten behind the machines, and he needed to help me move them out of the way.

“I knew there was something rotting back there! I knew it! Go throw it out!” Oh, mom. Always so sensitive. Could you imagine the look on my mom’s boyfriend’s face, too? Thinking I’m absolutely bonkers to want to go fetch a dead kitten.

Ten minutes later, the power is shut off in the house, machines disconnected and hauled out from the backyard shed. I’m the first one to sight the poor thing. There the little angel was, curled up in the dark, dirty corner. Skinny, filthy, stiff. I felt a horrible pang of guilt and sadness when I picked the little thing up- “GLOVES! Don’t pick it up with your hands, you’re disgusting!” -after pulling on some gloves. My maternal instincts are apparently really strong, I didn’t even give it a second’s thought to wear gloves before my hand was an inch away from the kitten.

Took the kitten to the trash, said a farewell, and placed it gently down in an empty cardboard box. “Another disrespectful way to get rid of you”, was what I was thinking.

I went inside, locked myself in the bathroom and had a good cry. You’re all probably thinking I’m out of my flying mind right about now. Just think of it this way, just for a second. Put yourself in the kitten’s tiny shoes.

You’re just born, super excited. You’re squirming, and wriggling, and starting to walk. Something happens, you get separated from your mom, you get stuck. You don’t know where you are, you can’t open your eyes yet. You’re cold. You’re hungry. You’re lonely. You’re scared. Imagine being stuck in a corner, helpless. Crying out for hours, maybe even a day or two. Before you finally succumb to starvation and the cold temperature. You died, alone, and frightened.

Just thinking about that, crushed my heart.

So, the point of this story is: When does a life start to matter?

I’ve been told over and over again, that I’m too sensitive. I’m too emotional. There must be something wrong with me, if I felt for a dead kitten. Litters are born large, there will always be some that die.

Okay, fine. I get that. But what makes it so wrong for someone to care about a creature that died? It didn’t have long to live. Even more of a reason for someone to feel for it. Creature- Be it human, or animal -Someone should mourn it’s departure from the living. I think that no matter who or what you are, someone needs to give a damn that you died. Someone out there needs to care, no matter how little, or how long you’ve been alive, someone needs to care that you’re no longer around.

Do you honestly have to be around someone, anything living, for years to feel an emotional response to it’s death?

Maybe I do care too much. Maybe I’m just out of my freakin’ marbles. But someone needed to give a shit about those kittens. And it sure as Hell wasn’t gonna be anyone else in my family.