Ducking and Driving

I warn you: this tale is definitely not for the squeamish.

One of our cats came in with a live bird the other day. Bert managed to get the bird away from the cat, but with only one hand was unable to catch it (the bird) and required some assistance. Being at his beck and call is nothing particularly new to me, as Bert has always regarded me as his PA/gopher. However, since he got his broken elbow [current diagnosis] he has hit new heights (depths?) of 'requiring-assistanceness'.

So, there we were, chasing a bird under and around a large christmas tree, using tea towels to direct it and then trap it. We soon realised that it was badly injured on one wing and Bert decided to put it out of its misery. Being temporarily one-handed, he required me to hold it while he did the deed. Feeling sickened by the task, I didn't manage to hold it firmly enough for him to break its neck so he then used his foot to hold it still while he twisted. "Do you think it is dead yet?" he asked. "Well, you've actually pulled it's head off, so I would think so," I replied.

Bleurghhhh.

But do you know, this is only one of many such tales of putting things out of their misery on Bert's part. We have a very similar story about a rabbit that we found dying on the Downs. And then there's the bonfire we lit to dispose of the dead fox we found in the garden (Bert's idea: we had a battle of wills over a few days but finally the stench and the thought of me having to dispose of it in some other way made me give in). But the classic story is that of The Duck and the Rubber Torch. (Do I actually have to say any more? Oh, ok then.)

Once upon a time long, long ago, Bert was driving to work along the coast road in his nice brown Chrysler Alpine. It was a busy-worky time of the morning with blue sky and floaty clouds and lots and lots of cars. All of a sudden, the driver of the car in front of Bert slammed his brakes on. The driver sat in his stationary car for quite a while for no obvious reason, but just as Bert was wondering what the f*ck was going on, the car moved on. Just as Bert was about to follow suit, he realised why the first car had stopped.

There was a duck flapping about in the road in a not-very-well sort of way.

Bert got out of his car to inspect more closely, and as he turned the duck over, a huge jet of blood sprayed up. Realising that the duck was soon to be a 'goner', Bert decided it was kinder to put it out of its misery rather than leave it to die in a slow, thrashy-but-lingering kind of way. He thought for a minute. How was he going to do it? The spurting blood meant that he didn't particularly want to handle the duck. He went to his car and looked in the boot. What luck - an old t-shirt. That'll do to wrap the duck up. And ... foot pump? No. Old pair of shoes? No. Large rubber torch? It would have to do.

Bert returned to the flapping duck. Meanwhile all the cars that had been forced to stop behind him were tooting their horns and waving fists out of windows (well, you can just imagine). Bert wrapped the t-shirt around the duck's head and struck it a few times with the rubber torch. He took a peep. Blood spurt. Flap flap. Wrap. Bludgeon. Peep. Spurt. Repeat.

Finally, another peep ascertained that there were no further spurts of blood or indeed any other signs of enduring duck life. Peep from Bert, no peep from the duck.

Bert considered his rubber torch. It would never shine again.

In order to maintain historical accuracy for this tale, I just asked Bert to remind me what he had done with the duck in the end. "Skip." "You threw it in a skip?" " I placed it in a skip."

And so back to the bird that the cat caught. Bert decided to put it out of its misery because it had an injured wing. Wing? Arm? What's the difference?

Can someone put me out of my misery?