People donât get it. Lambs are not afraid. They donât miss their moms. People think lambs cry for their moms when theyâre on their own, but they donât. They cry for tit. Or maybe they cry for bigger company. Not their moms. Once you walk one to your side they donât cry anymore. They donât cry when you put your knife to their neck. Hardly a whimper when you slice their throat. Some have licked my hand while they bled on the floor. They barely care about being hung upside down, and theyâll be dead before youâre done. Itâs not cruel. To them itâs barely uncomfortable. Lambs never understand whatâs happening. Theyâre never afraid. Itâs not pretty, but theyâre never afraid. Foxes are afraid. They understand, and they donât want to die. This one was hurt, from a trap that should have killed it. It couldnât run anymore. It would die in a week. Caranchos would eat its eyes while it was still limping. They do that to lambs as well, but they only do it to foxes when foxes are half-dead. If it had cubs, the rot would call kikes to its burrow. I knew that then too, from my encyclopedias. Kikes jump into your belly and eat you from the inside-out. It was merciful, killing a lamb with a knife to the throat. It would be merciful, killing this fox. My uncle told me to be a man and kill the fox myself. Told me not to be afraid. It would have been mercy, he said. My older cousin wasnât there, he said. I had my knife, didnât I? I did have my knife. But fox hide is not like a lambâs soft throat. Itâs wiry, and tough, and smells sour and rotten. I thought I should cut its throat, and managed to hold it, but it thrashed a lot, and my knife wasnât very good, and my hands were trembling really badly, and I think I held back a lot of strength. I wished the fox wouldnât be so scared, and I tried to hold it still, and be careful of its wound, and pet it a bit, and help it calm down, but the fox bit me really hard and I dropped my knife, and I dropped the fox, and it hurt its leg worse. It could barely stand now. The bad leg got in the way of its other leg at a weird angle, and it didnât seem to understand why it had trouble walking. I tried looking at my uncle but didnât see him. He was probably still watching, I assured myself--but I didnât see him. I wasnât crying, I was just breathing hard. My arm hurt where the fox had bitten me, and I didnât have my knife anymore. But I was being fearless. The fox growled and hissed. They make a sound, like a baby. Like a crying baby. But I hadnât been able to kill it with my knife. I wished I had been better with a knife. My only other option was my rebenqueâs pummel. It was not meant for a kid. In my hands, it looked more like a club. It took a lot of false starts to hit it across the face. But I didnât put enough strength in the blow. The fox yelped. It didnât try to run. It didnât try to growl. It just complained, after I hadnât killed it. I put both hands on my makeshift club and lifted my arms over my head, and gritted my teeth, and the fox staggered towards my feet, as I tried to be merciful. I recoiled and kicked its nose by accident. I hadnât meant to. I think I really hurt it, because it fell down. I let it get up and it tried to walk again. It raised its head towards me, but its eyes were closed. I think it was trying to bear its teeth, but it looked more like a grimace. It was trying to growl, I think, but it started wailing instead. Just like a baby. So I hit it again. And I didnât kill it again. And I hit it again, and it didnât fall down, and it didnât stop wailing, and my hand was trembling. And I hit it again, but it was still standing, and I was still not hitting it hard enough, and it was still wailing. And I kept hitting it, with my club, and it kept wailing after each blow, and at some point I noticed its nose was bleeding, and at some point its cries became shorter, and at some point it finally fell down. I looked over my shoulder. My uncle wasnât there. His truck wasnât there. My brother, my cousin, my mom; there was no one there. But I was not crying. My face hurt from being stiff, and I found I was kneeling down in front of the fox. And it was bleeding from its mouth and one of its eyes was bulging out. I tried to pet it, and it only recoiled a little, and its pelt was really soft, and I felt like crying, and I thought about my mom, and I thought about mercy, but I had to be fearless, and I didnât have to cry. The fox was still crying. It had never stopped crying. So I grabbed my club, and I hit it again. And I could hear my mercy even over the wind hitting my face.
Not like a lamb at all. Lambs die in silence.
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