An Animal Exercise

Some of these things are just too much for you to understand at this point. You’re just a little baby bird, after all. Hugo left the nest a while ago and you’re sitting there, stewing in your own thoughts. At some point, you are going to have to spread your wings, leave the nest.

My friend from back home, he’s a honey bee. He waits and waits in the depths of the hive, lining up for his turn with the queen. When he’s done, he’ll be kicked out of the hive and left for dead. But I have a matchbox and a tiny little bed for him, and I will find him, and I will keep him warm and bring him cups of tea until he feels better. And when he has recovered he and I will explore the world in a hot-air balloon made from silk, mohair, and spit. And he will know joy, music, and love. And his life will stretch beyond what any drone has known, because I, with my simple will, kept him from that cruelty. And then, when he has grown into a human man, he will return to the hive, seeking vengeance. He will have a lighter and a can of hairspray. And he will overthrow the monarchy and, in turn, destroy its innocent citizens. Only then will he have the strength to throw himself into the lake.

Dogs are basically people. If you think about it, dogs have heads and bodies and hearts and minds and tongues and legs and feet and ears and noses and eyes and hair and love and righteousness and stuff. Dogs are basically people.

I was away, on holiday, and we locked our cat in a shipping container. He cleared the mice from their nest and then went hungry, grown weak in the dark. He must have read all of my old Andy Griffiths books. He must have gotten into VHS tapes. He must have yearned to know what it was like to go skiing. He must have played a lot of Commodore 64. He must have set up the tent and pretended he was camping. He must have scratched all our CDs, just for something to do. He must have sorted through the rusty metal spikes we keep for no good reason. He must have measured, hammered and levelled to his heart’s content. His brother, on the outside, went looking for him and wandered onto the road, only to get flattened by a passing car. Irony kills our cats.

Barn Owl - Scree, scree, scree!

Barred Owl - Huwru! Huwru!

Eastern Screech Owl - Croo, croo!

Powerful Owl - Whoo-woo! Whoo-woo! Whoo-woo!

Southern Boobook - Boo-book! Boo-book! Boo-book!

Tawny Frogmouth - Huihuihuihuihuihuihuihui...

Western Screech Owl - Koorooroo koorooroo koorooroo!

I wonder how a butterfly feels about its certain lack of secondary motion. Maybe it’s only on our large scale that it seems like a simple pair of planes which hinge around one another. Maybe in reality its shimmering scales rattle in the breeze.