T: 11/19/02

Work Diary, 11/19/02

A long time ago, while I was in New York - and just before I started
teaching - my partner bought me a bird. "Bird" was a parakeet,
hand-raised, and he was a pistol from the get-go.

Though he had a cage, Bird was allowed to fly free about our
apartments. Later, when we bought a house, he had the same freedom. You
could pinpoint his favorite spots by the amount of droppings on the
floor. Since he weighed three ounces, there was no getting mad at
him.

My partner originally trained Bird by placing him in the pocket of his
robe. Bird was a baby then, and he would sit in the pocket looking up
and perfectly content, as if he were meant to be in a terrycloth womb.
At the time, we had a roommate named "Babs." Babs liked to take Bird
out of his cage and take him up to her room. He was that tame. Still,
we cautioned Babs about interfering with Bird's bonding process.
Namely, of course, we wanted Bird to bond with us.

Our fears were groundless. Bird often perched on our chests, napping
right along with our snores. If we ran water in the sink, he often
showed up for a bath. We got used to looking up before shutting a door.
Once, my partner left the front door of our apartment open while he
studied for a test. A cat got in, and even had Bird in its mouth before
my partner noticed. When he did notice, my partner became a screaming
banshee, securing my respect and saving Bird at the same time.

When we got a dog, Bird was sequestered into one room. He didn't seem
to mind, though I discovered he'd been sneaking out via the gap
underneath the door. The dog, Sophie, did her best, but even if I
yelled, she couldn't help but snap at the yellow blur in the air.
Fortunately, Sophie's snapping jaws only met with air.

Bird is buried underneath a miniature concrete Buddha in our backyard.
Specifically, he is wrapped in a silk scarf. His casket is a jewelry
box. We put his favorite mirror and some millet in his coffin. Somehow,
it seemed right, and we felt better. My partner buried Bird, while I
stood at the kitchen window and cried. Later I went down into the yard,
shuffling a bit by Bird's grave. I cried then, too, and I don't care
how sentimental or melodramatic that sounds. It sucked, and that's all
there is to it.

Recently, my friend put down her nine-year-old cat. Apparently he was
biting people. For the life of me, I don't understand how my friend did
it. I "get" why she put the cat to sleep, but when I put myself into
her position, I think, "Could I do that? Will I be able to when the
time comes for my dog?"

When I was kid, I knew other kids who were perfectly willing to light a
firecracker in a cat's ass. I never saw such a thing, and I'm glad I
didn't, but it did make me wonder about other people (really, it made
me completely suspicious).

Euthanasia aside, how can you possibly be cruel to an animal? What is
the satisfaction from, say, beating or starving a dog? It seems
contrary to the whole human experience.

I hope, after I die, to come back as an abused dog. Naturally, I hope
my reincarnation involves some sort of self-awareness. How else to bite
the hand that feeds you?

My dog doesn't even get out of bed until her bowl hits the floor. She
waits until I fill up the water bowl; she waits until I pull the wet
food out of the refrigerator; she waits until I'm scooping the dry food
into the bowl. Then, and only then, does she come up the stairs and
eat. Afterwards, she goes back to bed.

I've watched television shows about abused dogs. The SPCA officer finds
a bone-thin pooch dead on the back porch; a neighbor calls in about a
dog with no teeth; a bitch has had puppies in the drainage ditch. These
are true horror stories, and - forgive me - they rank right up there
with starving children. If my child were starving, would I cook the
dog? You bet, but I'd be damned nice to the dog beforehand.

Anyway, is humanity not measured by its treatment of the non-human?
Look how far we've come in the slaughter of domestic food animals. Yes,
there's room for improvement. Yes, we should be selective in what we
eat. But generally the cows and pigs and sheep have it easy compared to
their forefathers. Slaughter is slaughter, I guess, but I'd rather be a
modern cow than, say, a nineteenth century cow.

In the third grade, I found my missing parakeet in the closet we used
for storage. His head was missing, a crime that we easily attributed to
Elmer, our on-again, off-again cat. I can't remember the parakeet's
name, but I do know that when I looked down on that feathery
decapitated mess, I vowed to be nice to animals.

How fortunate I've been, really. By all accounts, I should be
vivisecting cats and putting grasshoppers in the microwave. But that is
not my style - I'd rather pet the cats and watch the grasshoppers go
about their angular business. I don't even kill the spiders in my
house. I figure they take care of the other bugs and, besides, they're
kind of cool looking.