Cut off our tails, will you?
Vividly I dreamt of being overwhelmed with animals I must care for. Cages of rats that suddenly become cages of color-splashed birds and then rats again. Pink dead babies littering an old turn of the century style house. A hate-filled man dressed like a vaudeville stage magician watches. With dream-omnipotence I know that he’s rooting for me to fail, even though he’s not saying or doing anything. Waking. One of our rats, Nox Sophia, emits a piercing squeak. A stillborn baby rat is lodged partway out of her birth canal. It’s like something out of the movie Antichrist. (That was a stillborn deer, but, yeah.) I put on a pair of surgical gloves and help Nox Sophia deliver the stillborn, like the midwife of barrenness that I basically am. She trusts me, doesn’t nip or try to run. Though I often consider myself as moving beyond the constrains of sex and gender, as they are commonly perceived, I feel extremely female. The rat and I are in the recesses of femaleness that some feminists don’t like to acknowledge, that stirs the primal anger at us in the misogynists. The portal of entry into life is also the gate to death.
She’s been fine since, resting, eating, even climbing around a bit.