Thursday, 5 November 2009

Remember Remember...

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Yes, it's that time of year again when us strange English gather in a muddy field, usually in the rain, to enjoy overpriced junk food commodities served from a dubious vending van whilst watching with apparent enjoyment a 5 minute fireworks display and uttering "Oohs" and "Aahs" in massive unison, all to commemorate an attempt on the government some five hundred years ago.
Now don't get me wrong, I actually love fireworks and Guy Fawke's Night and every year until this one would find me out on that selfsame muddy field. The only reason I'm not going this year is because I'm still coughing my lungs up and hubby is still a bit wobbly from his gastroenteritis: neither of us in a fit state for the long walk, even longer time standing still and long return walk afterward that a big fireworks event entails.

Instead, for the first time since we've been together, we'll be at home, perhaps watching fireworks through the windows, or possibly ignoring it all together. This, however, is not the focus of my blog today. Instead I want to spare a brief moment to think about the cruelty some people inflict on animals. I know, I know, a bit of a non sequitur, but stay with me here.

Years ago my mum worked with some people who lived in a very affluent area on the outskirts of London. They had a sweet cat who was very much loved and all the neighbours looked out for each other. One day the cat didn't come in for his dinner, neither did he appear by bedtime. By morning the enxt day they were frantic, calling the neighbours, the vets, putting up posters - anything they could think of.

Later that day they had a call from a local vet. After confirming that they owned a cat, and that it was currently missing, he gently broke the bad news to them. Their cat had been found in a very bad state after a group of youths had captured him and affixed a number of rockets to his tail using Gaffa Tape. The poor cat had, in desperation, tried to remove the lit fireworks and had been so badly injured on his face as well as his tail that the vet had had to decide on the kindest route and put him down.

To this day I dislike seeing fireworks in the hands of anyone but official events organisers and, when one went off erroneously behind our garden earlier I freaked out and called the cats in. They're not fond of the noises, though they bear them with more equanimity than my mum's rescue cats ever did, but I want them inside the house if people are going to let off fireworks nearby.

Too protective? Maybe, but I couldn't bear for my little boys to suffer the torture that that other poor cat went through. No matter how kind most of this nation is towards animals, there are a few people who are downright sadistic.

1 comment:

  1. That's so cruel, the poor cat :( It's made me feel sick to my stomach.
    In a lighter note I've always felt that Guy Fawkes was the sanest man to get into the Houses of Parliament, and look what happened to him! :D