Diana Humble Scooter

DIANA HUMBLE

Scooter

I am the reluctant owner of a 10 blade, colloquially termed a scalpel. It’s specifically designed to sever skin.

When I was in zoology I had a fetal pig named Scooter. I named him that. He was the size of a football. A pigskin.

The first time I had to cut him open with the scalpel, my hand shook. The laceration was uneven. My throat constricted when cracking his sternum. I would hold Scooter’s foot in an act of creature comfort while my lab partner probed and prodded his thoracic cavity. I knew Scooter was dead. I knew he couldn’t feel any pain, but I felt that pain for him.

He was so small. Hadn’t even left his mother’s womb. He’s far from home. His first venture outside the amniotic sac ended in two kids analyzing his guts, knowing they’ll discard him at semester’s end. I wanted to steal Scooter from the lab and care for him like his mother would have.

As I held his foot, I would examine my wrists.

I’m not in zoology anymore, but I miss Scooter. I want to go and visit him, but I know I’d also be visiting the scalpel. I own the scalpel; I can take it home, but that scares me. I don’t think it’d hurt to use on myself.

I care more for that pig than I do myself.