Unwicked

I took a walk this afternoon through lower Manhattan and at one point I decided to take a rest in City Hall Park. By the central fountain I saw a little rat trying to climb the side of the fountain. He didn’t look well. He was convulsing, and I noticed there was a small streak of blood where he had been rubbing against the stone base of the fountain. He slid down and lay tucked against the smooth stone and continued to shake his tiny shakes.

I know he was a rat and they are not considered by many to be affection-worthy. I understand that the city wages war against rats for the sake of the health of the inhabitants of New York City. This little guy was probably poisoned, or perhaps had been injured in a battle with a human or a dog, but just because he’s considered vermin doesn’t mean I stop caring about animals.

I’ll stop here because, if I continue to write about one rat dying in NYC, I’ll sound like an idiot and I’ll probably make myself cry. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, and when I went up to where he lay to see what was wrong with him, I could see he was dying. All animals die and this was his turn.

I had considered my options, whether I should scoop him up or put him out of his misery, and then I decided to spend a moment near him thinking about death and life and wishing him a quick end, and I moved on to Rockefeller Park on the Hudson River where I would listen to some free music. I wish I had done something to help him. I wish I was St. Francis.

The way I figure it, if Pixar can make a movie about a rat who can cook, then I can bloody well give a damn about the plight of one little New York rat of real bone and blood.

RIP, little rat.