Australia: The Kangaroo Mercy Killers (cont.)

The two English guys have just arrived here. Two weeks ago, they were still at school in England, wearing tailcoats and translating Latin verse. Today they are in Australia, standing in a creek-bed, with rocks in their hands, just out of jumping range of a seriously enraged one-footed kangaroo.

I’ve been here for five months, and I’ve seen plenty of worse things. I had to bear witness to my neighbor shooting his terminally ill dog. He chose the wrong gun for the job – too powerful – and I got dog blood and brains spattered on my face. A globule of brain stuck to my lip, and I had to wipe it off with my sleeve – I couldn’t resist licking the trace of slime that remained – it tasted of sweet salt.

We – Sam, the two English guys, and I – have formed a wide circle around this kangaroo. The perimeter is wide because even with only one good foot, he can jump about fifteen feet. This is a big kangaroo – almost six feet high.

He does not know that we have come to perform an act of mercy. He thinks we’ve come to kill him. He is wrong and right. This is an act of mercy, and we have come to kill him. It occurs to me that my reasoning is inferior to the kangaroo’s.

He swipes at us with arms bigger than my own. He has long, sharp claws. He barks – yes, barks. His eyes flash and roll wildly in his head, like the wounded horses Homer describes in the Iliad. I mention this. It is one of the absurdities of the situation that three of them grasp this reference easily – three well-educated boys of good family who have come to Australia to get a taste of a more elemental life. We are certainly getting that taste today.

This kangaroo has about three more minutes to live. We are throwing rocks at his head in an effort to stun him. This is my plan: we will try to knock him out or at least stun him; then I will cut his throat. None of us knows what it takes to knock a kangaroo out, but we are doing our best.

I carry my knife in my left hand. I throw with my right. I throw a rock that hits the kangaroo on the shoulder, and I flinch. I imagine what this kangaroo must be thinking – four creatures surrounding him and throwing rocks at him. I am in pain and they are causing me more pain. All he can do is hate us. These are the last things he will know of life – hatred and pain. I hate being a part of this. Weirdly, I am uneasy about this kangaroo thinking ill of me. I would like to explain to him that I am trying to spare him; I would like to convince him of my compassion.

Sam has thrown a rock that hit the kangaroo squarely on the back of the skull. The kangaroo is reeling, off balance. I am already there. The knife has already switched from left to right hand. I am already standing behind the kangaroo, drawing the blade across his throat.

He growls – almost purrs – and I can feel his breath weaken. I hear a catch in his throat, and a slight gurgling, and the whishhh of air escaping through a wet hole. There is also the sound of heavy, measured breathing – my own.

I notice that I have wrapped my left arm around his chest. I am embracing him. I hear myself cooing in his ear. I am telling him to go to sleep and that everything will be all right. "Shhhhhhhhhhh," I say. "It’s all right. Shhhhhhhhhh..."

There is a wind that has been blowing here for a few million years, rustling the grasses, scattering the seeds, spreading the brushfires, carrying the words of men into oblivion. It continues. We feel it tousling our longish hair, billowing our shirts. A hawk glides overhead, breasting the high winds, seemingly stationary against a sky that has seen everything that has ever happened in this world and has yet to be moved by any of it.

Page 2 of 2   Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.