And all men kill the thing they love . . . — Oscar Wilde, the ballad of reading gaol

Tonight, the story of Boomerang and the Butterfly.

I was walking Boomer, as I always do. Taking him out for his evening air, his nightly stretching of the legs, sniffing of the air, the remembrance of his life before adoption by the woman who keeps him inside. Away from his beloved nature.

And he did, and does, love his nature. When he was wild, he would sit a few feet away from me as I worked in the yard pulling weeds or digging up old tree stumps. He’d go to the pond nearby and try to catch turtles. He’d climb trees. He even killed baby birds in those months before I moved him indoors.

It was his nature to explore, to revel in the grass, the scents of the air, to turn somersaults in the sunshine, to rest sleepily in the shade. I’ve never stopped feeling guilty about taking that away from him. In my fierce desire to keep him safe, I’ve effectively eradicated his ability to experience what he loves the most. Over a year later, I still find myself apologizing in my head, “I’m sorry, Boomer. I know you miss your outside.”

So, I walk him. Twice a day, every morning and night. No matter how busy. And the moment I lift my big outdoor hat to my head, he knows. That’s his sign and he runs to the door and meows and knows it’s his turn. His turn for being outdoors. His turn for being himself. En plein air.

Tonight I walked him and as we walked past the row of Mexican Petunias, a butterfly floated past. No ordinary butterfly this, it was magnificent — kind of a dark brown with just a thin amount of yellow along the edges. But what was startling was his size — the size of his body, not necessarily of his wings. I stopped to watch and Boomer rested on the concrete sidewalk, contentedly sniffing the weeds that grow unchallenged in the cracks.

I watched the butterfly for some time. He was so beautiful. I marveled at the size of his body — how did he grow so big? How old was he? Did I have time to go grab my camera?

I felt, as I often do, in this crazy yard of mine, a dorky swelling in my heart. A feeling of such simple goodness — seeing that butterfly bumping through the air kind of dancing this way and that, never seeming to have a plan, but undoubtedly he did. I couldn’t believe how lovely he was to be in my yard on a Friday evening, flitting about from flower to flower as if the world was his and he had only to be in it. And to give me a feeling of everything being alright in the world.

And then Boomerang jumped.

Lept from his spot on the concrete, clasped his massive paws around the butterfly and dropped back to the ground, the butterfly with him. It happened in the most cliché of ways — in a flash.

I pulled Boomerang away, but knew instinctively it was too late.

The magical and majestic, so small, but so big, butterfly, the one who had made me smile so truly, lay dying on the sidewalk.

I prayed he would flutter his wings and muster the strength to return to the air. But he didn’t. He flapped his fragile wings a couple of times and then, so sadly, he stopped moving.

Boomerang had heard the horror in my voice when I yelled, “Boomerang! No!” He knew something was really wrong when I knelt on the sidewalk and squeaked out a prayer for the little thing to “Please, live.” He stayed put, on his leash, just a foot or two away. He knew.

I turned and scooped him up and rushed him back inside, then returned to examine the butterfly.

I searched for signs of life; I nudged him with my finger. Nothing.

Eventually I picked him up by one wing as easily as I could and placed him under a Mexican Petunia. He didn’t move.

Over the next half-hour, I walked back and forth between my house and the spot where the butterfly was — just checking for what, I don’t know. At one point, a lizard hovered near the butterfly on a rock. I was afraid he wanted to eat him; on one hand understanding that’s nature and on the other, not wanting the butterfly, if it did have any life left in it, to feel any more terror than it’d already felt. I shooed the lizard away.

I stood guard for awhile, but then eventually went inside. I came back out about 15 minutes later and the butterfly was gone. I searched the nearby bushes for signs of him or a lizard with a bulging gut, but found neither.

Did the butterfly revive itself and fly away? Was it devoured by a lizard or perhaps a bird swooped down and scarfed it up?

I’ll never know.

But I do know this: our lives are made up of just such moments. Moments when our very pause can be a matter of life or death. When the thing that we love so much our heart hurts can kill something that we love only ephemerally but nevertheless honestly, where is reason and where is unreason? Who are we that we hurt, always unnecessarily and often unintentionally, those who give us the greatest pleasure and delight and maybe even love?

I can’t read a cat’s mind. But I doubt Boomer acted with the intention of killing. I think he saw a pretty, delightful thing flying with abandon and he wanted to capture it. Maybe play with it a bit. Maybe bring it down to his level on solid ground and take a good, long look at it.

Boomerang’s intention wasn’t to deny the butterfly of its very lifeblood — movement; he was simply enchanted and wanted to make that enchantment his. Just like I did with him, in a way, when I decided his life for him by adopting him and making him an indoor cat whose only ability to experience life as he longs for it, is at the end of a leash that I control.

And we call this love.

And so it is with humans. We see something — someone — beautiful passing by. Their mystery and freedom is attractive. We reach out to touch, to grasp, maybe to enfold,to make that beauty ours, and in the process, we snuff out the very wings that gave it’s beauty flight … and we kill the very thing we love.