This morning I watched the bird, my bird, the bird who I have shared a house with over the last twenty years being gassed; gassed as a prelude to the fatal injection. Of course.

Vets are very human, if they have to slay your animal they never talk about money; you see the killing and you are out the door, the bill lands later. And they don't let just everybody watch pets die. Vets know a bit more about death than doctors.

It was a horribly beautiful sunny day to be killing fowl. I went clutching a box. A box that contained a scratching, squawking bundle of life that smelt of death. Neither bird nor box is with me now.

After the killing I walked out into the weak March-sun, watched the mums, and the dads, and the dogs, and the kids. And realized that...

My wife hates me because I don't care...?

I'm not sure what she means; am I not behaving in the way that the caring  do? Or is  it that my reactions are different to her's? or does she blame me because I was a part of the deed?

She is mourning, so she blames me for...