Goldfinch

When it thawed during the night making the snow pleasantly slippery, I walked and slid round the house forming small snowballs and throwing them for Banjo to chase. He stayed outdoors when I was driven inside by icy red hands. Before these had warmed, I heard a cat's cry and rushed out fearing that Banjo had injured himself. Rounding a corner I saw him coming towards me with something in his mouth, and followed him back to the steps outside the back door. There he dropped a little bird which I picked up and stroked. It was the first time I had seen a goldfinch and I was astounded by the bright beauty of the feathers which covered its still warm body.

Banjo had brought the dead bird to show me and expected congratulations and, perhaps, reassurance that the bird was safe to eat. He purred while I petted him, feeling sad at the loss of the beautiful goldfinch whose gleaming gold, black and red on a sandy background had made it conspicuous to an accomplished hunter.

Soon I realised that I, a meat eater, was being superficial, in judging the value of a creature by what pleases the eye. No amount of sentimentality on my part can make a bird immortal and, even if cats did not exist, I suspect we would find very few geriatric goldfinches. The weather, disease or other predators might terminate a vulnerable life. I do not have the knowledge to decide which is more desirable; for Banjo to dine on beef or on goldfinch.