On Vivisection

This morning I decided Spring is abroad. While running through Battersea Park I found I was too warm with my beanie on, and delighted in whipping it off. Oh delicious thrill! The simple pleasure of feeling wind in your hair after a winter spent cocooned in synthetic fabrics is worth the wait! Another reason I love living in a country with defined seasons... I squelched my way happily through a few mud puddles and the odd semi-bog and then I happened across a little monument. It was tucked away in a little path beside the English Garden. It is called the Monument to The Brown Dog, whose bronze likeness sits atop a plinth telling his tragic little tale. He died at the hands of vivisectionists in 1903, one of 19,000 such animals that year, after enduring two months of experiments. The monument was erected in his honour in 1985 by people concerned about the fact that animal experimentation still existed in our Great Britain. And it continues to do so. I don't devote much headspace to the idea of vivisection beyond Bastards, I hope you develop Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but henceforth I resolve to be stricter about reading labels and asking where my mascara really comes from. The early-morning drizzle had left its drops sparkling on the world, and it dripped down his bronze face. At least someone has the sense to cry.