I’m confronted by the trolley problem again.
A flutter in the grass beside one of the barn cats gives me pause - I step out of the van, and take a few steps to peer under the truck. The barn cat looks on impassively, in a lazy crouch just inches from its victim.
A beautiful little grey bird flaps feebly against the dirt, gasping, and I gently pick it up and cradle it in my palm. It’s soft and warm and trembling, a bleeding puncture wound to its lower abdomen. Its beak opens and closes, futilely, in little gasps. I feel sick, a deep well of anger bubbling to the surface - in that moment, I genuinely hated this stupid, horrible, beloved calico.
I wonder if this is what God feels like, when men kill each other.
I snap its neck with a quick motion, and the trembling stops. I set the thing down on the grass a few paces away, and drive home, with literal blood on my hands, angry tears streaming down my cheeks, wondering if the owner of the barn saw what I’d done from the bedroom window.


















