As I've said, early experiences with death affect the way we view and react to death. I was perhaps seven or eight when I convinced my mother to allow me to buy a couple of white mice from our favorite department store in New Jersey--Modells. I created a comfortable home for them out of a carton and shredded newspaper. I loved stroking them and watching the two little mice scurry about; they seemed so carefree.
One morning I removed the lid of the box and discovered that one of the mice lay on its side, frozen in a corner of the box, stiff as could be. I shrunk back in horror. I don't remember who it was--most likely my mother--who gathered the dead mouse up, wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in the earth in our backyard. I wouldn't go near it. I insisted that the mouse be properly buried, despite having not been to my grandfather's funeral just a few years before. Within a short time, the other mouse died, too. I found myself in a state of disbelief... feeling guilty, then numb. Never again would I go out and buy a pet of any kind.
early morning cartoons--
over and over characters get killed
then spring back to life