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I.

             At the reptile show I saw live mice being fed to pythons. The mice were packed twenty-to-a-box  and tossed by their tails to the snakes. The scientists told me they got the mice in boxes from the pet shop and I tried to imagine a clerk stuffing boxes with mice for their final trip to the terrarium.
             Ever since I've looked for boxes of mice at the pet store, but they're never put on display. I thought as a gesture I'd buy a box of white mice to let go to make up for the mice I saw slain.
             As it is, I myself tossed a few mice to the snakes. I couldn’t see any future for them, and I didn't think there were any green pastures for mice who retired because Boa Constrictors ran out of appetite.
             When I was a child we kept pet finches, and I was taught not to catch them. Birds don't like being handled and just panic and smash against the bars of their cages. I was proud of myself if I could go three weeks with only watching them. When I did grab one he would be warm and soft and as fragile in my fingers as cellophane.
             The mice also were small — even smaller than finches — and one bit me on the web of my thumb as I flung him into the mouth of a smiling python.
             I rather liked the Boa Constrictors. They were sleek and cheerful and urbane as they glided about the tabletops with muscular heavings — quite good-natured and curious for cold-blooded creatures. In the tepid climate of the display hall the snakes felt as warm and friendly as leather armchairs and saddles.

II.

             I wonder what it’s like to be eaten alive.

             My brother-in-law watches Nature programs on television — and I don't mean just frogs swallowing flies. We can watch cheetahs jump wild pigs and lions stagger from cobra bites until I can't stand it anymore.

             Perhaps losing a child is like having part of you eaten and being left alive.

             In the Roman Catholic church I attend we're taught that the infant’s a person as soon as he 'takes hold' so to speak. And I'm willing to defend the point — but mostly because I don't like feminists, anyway.
             But, I don't know — I'm not really sure. When does a feeling of illness in your belly become someone you name and love and lose? It would be idle to ask women because they probably don't know and I doubt that they care.
             Mothers believe that their children are theirs to keep or kill, forever.

III.

             The blackbirds who nest under the eaves of my building resent my intrusions, and drop shit when I lean out my window to smoke.
             The raccoons who scavenge the alley below are criminals. They are as brassy at night as street gang members and peer up with red-rimmed eyes full of hatred and fury. I believe they do know they’re trespassing and stealing — that the garbage isn't theirs — and they mean to challenge property lines and perhaps start a fight.
             I believe that Evolution continues and raccoons will become, in the course of time, large shrewd predators and make a terror of the forests, smaller towns and slum neighborhoods. I also believe they also will carry their wicked and vindictive souls with them across generations — and when I look down from my second-story windows I'm glad for the distance. For I fear their present violence, and I also don't want to create a needless offense against their Karma.
             I too may someday migrate to another body … and I never want to be eaten alive.