psy·cho·path /ˈsīkəˌpaTH/

noun 1. a person affected by chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.

I love my little garden. It’s my happy place. I have a little potted veggie garden, some flowers, a fountain and two bird feeders.  I can spend hours watching my birds flit about, stopping by for a visit and a snack. I have grown especially fond of a family of doves that visit daily.

They have become my friends, especially during this time while I can’t do much of anything but sit and heal my broken ankle. I share everything with them, my deepest fears, my ideas, and they actually seem like they are listening. They don’t fly away when I greet them, and as I have been able to stand, they allow me to get close as I whisper some “tea” I don’t want my neighbors to hear.

I also love my cats. I have three of them. Yep, I have become the proverbial cat lady and I talk to them too. And FYI I have a dog, a Chuinni (Chihuahua/Weener Dog Mix) named Moose – although I often refer to him as moosifer- and yes I talk to him.

I have a deep love and connection with animals. I feed the squirrels and the crows, the family of woodpeckers living in the eaves of my apartment building, the hummingbird, I even talk to the spiders that build their tangled little webs around my garden.

Hell, I talk to my plants. All of these creatures and plants are my family, my children and I care for them almost as much as I care for my real live babes (even if they are in their mercurial teens)

But lately I have been at war with one species. Snails. Snails have invaded my sacred space and I have tried everything to peacefully request they vacate the area to no avail.

I asked them politely to leave while gently removing them from my baby cucumbers. I surrounded my boxes with copper, placed a bowl of beer near by…like I tried every non-violent trick in the book and these lil’ fuckers persist.

And so one evening, as I stood grieving over the death of yet another cucumber plant, I was overcome by anger. Rage took over and without even considering what I was about to do, I plucked the potential escargot from the tiny nub of green left from my baby and chucked it as far as I could.

I listened to the swish as the Gastropod sailed through the air and then heard an extremely loud crack for such a small creature.

And I relished in that sound.

It felt good…

Like really good.

For the next several evenings this became my guilty pleasure. I became a snail hunter. The snail slayer known throughout the land. Merciless, brutal, horrifying.

And still they persist and now it is an all out war. They are coming in droves as if they’ve put out the call to every snail within a 5 mile radius, the biggest and meanest they could muster, with shells and without and with every onslaught of slugs I have become resolute in my victory.

Waiting patiently for the sun to set and for my nightly hunt to begin.

The swish and the crack my delicious reward for another catch and slaughter.

[Insert maniacal laugh here]

Night after night.

And then one morning I made my way to my little sanctuary and there on the ground were bird feathers…feathers of a dove to be exact and I was devastated. I searched the entire patio and found no body, just 3 small feathers.

I knew immediately who the culprit was. My youngest cat, Luna Penelope May. A teenager herself, who has refused to listen when I would scold her for jumping at the birds while she sunbathed with me outside.  This cat would accept the water I threw at her to dissuade her prowess as a gift. She was tenacious, so much so that I almost never left her unattended in the garden. Somehow she had eluded me and found herself alone with my dove.

With no body or bones to be found I held out hope that my sweet friend had survived.

And I banished Miss Luna May from the 10x8 square of sunshine she’s ever known.

She sat, wailing at the sliding door, pleading, stalking…waiting for the door to open so he could dash out and once again taste blood.

I understood that while I could be saddened by the loss of my doves, they stopped coming by, spreading the world that my little patch of earth housed a death squad, I couldn’t really be angry with her. She was, after all just doing what cats do. It’s in her DNA.

And I also reflected on my own recent delight in the murdering of snails. Is murder in my DNA as well?

Recently a question was posed to me. Would I kill someone to protect my child.

After a lot of thought I know the answer is yes, if my child was in imminent danger from another human or creature and I was their only hope then I would. I suspect most Moms would say yes to that question.

But does that make me evil or protective?

Does the slaughtering of snails make me evil? Or is it that I enjoy knowing that they are dead and gone that could potentially be considered psychopathic?  Are we all a little bit crazy, especially when it comes to protecting what we love?

It’s been 5 days since the feathers were found and this morning as I sat with my coffee and my cigarette listening to the creatures greet the day, I heard it. The distinct Woooo Wooo of my doves. I gasped a little and in she flew. Perching on the fence giving me the side eye. I apologized profusely and begged her not to abandon me. I would do better for her and her family.

I explained to her that Luna May is now only allowed outside at night and mid-day when the sun shines too hot and the birds and all their friends have snacked and bathed and are chilling in the shade of the trees outside my patio.

I swear she gave me a nod and a wink, took a nibble of the freshly filled bird feeder and flew off.  Perching herself on the tree branch that hangs just above my fence. Watching to make sure I am keeping my word.

I am.

I’ve decided to stop murdering the snails. I’ll go back to capture and relocate.  I saged and burned a candle to remove all the murderous juju and sent out a prayer for all those who lost their lives in the snail war of 2023.

Now that I have tasted blood, the warrior awoken within me, will I kill again?

I hope not, but don’t try me.