Animals have these advantages over man: they never hear the clock strike, they die without any idea of death, they have no theologians to instruct them, their last moments are not disturbed by unwelcome and unpleasant ceremonies, their funerals cost them nothing, and no one starts lawsuits over their wills.
— François Marie Arouet
Summer abounds in these parts, a constant vigil of heat and humidity persistent against the flesh of my being, a reminder that, although all things end, all things do not end when we wish them to.
So I ask: When comes autumn?
Texas fails the color test of seasonal change, for Texas proffers such transformations with rapidity. Perchance one day we feel hot, then the next we feel cool—almost cold. This is the way of things here, dramatic and unyielding to expectations.
Still I wonder: When comes autumn?
Soon leaves will fall from trees like so much carnage born of wars unwanted. Wisps of ligneous carrion will brush the streets with that sound we long for, that clarion of change.
Tell me: When comes autumn?
I spied some little trinket of nature’s making and decided to go outside to snap a few photos. I armed myself with the camera and a spare battery just in case, then I unlocked the front door and opened it.
To my surprise, something quite small and agile darted through the doorway, scampered over my sandaled foot, and disappeared beneath the love seat. I failed to see it clearly due to its minuscule size and rapid pace.
Yet I had not been the only one to see it. Normally drawn to the front door when opened due to its being used so infrequently, all five of The Kids stood at my feet watching me. Their attention immediately fell to the floor when our visitor rushed in unannounced.
I pushed the door shut, placed the camera on the cat tree by my side, and turned my focus toward whatever hid beneath the furniture.
Oh, what a drama!
The invader was much smaller than a single breath. Dark and stealthy, fast and frightened, it rested in safe shadows hoping to remain undiscovered and undisturbed.
I moved this and that out of the way, then I pulled the love seat away from the wall. But I was not alone.
A handful of predacious felines remained so close that their whiskers tickled me at every turn. Every nook and cranny exposed by my actions demanded immediate investigation by them. Whatever shared our abode could not be in more danger. . .
Litter boxes and scratching posts pushed aside, I picked up the love seat and moved it some distance from the wall, perhaps an arm’s length. Nothing. Even as The Kids moved in and investigated, I stood bewildered and worried.
Some coaxing and petting drew away the killers long enough for me to move the furniture even further away from the wall.
Then I spied it! A Mediterranean gecko (a.k.a. house gecko; Hemidactylus turcicus) so small that I feared any of the cats could swallow it in a single motion.
Before it could move, I reached down and enveloped it with my hand.
Who knew a closed fist still provided enough room for some creatures to run? I didn’t, yet I could feel the tiny lizard rushing about looking for an exit.
I knew it wasn’t safe. I knew its fear would drive it to leap away as soon as it could. Photos would be impossible. Still, I grabbed the camera and headed outside to release it.
The moment I opened my hand, it scurried across my skin, me turning my appendage rapidly to compensate.
Finally, it perched momentarily between thumb and knuckles. I snapped the only picture I could take.
And then it was gone. With one bold leap it flew away from me, landed on the patio fence, ran with utter abandon to the nearest wall, and disappeared around the corner.
I felt my job was done.
[btw, I assume it to be a female because many of these exotic lizards are parthenogenetic; I could be wrong, but it’s still a safe assumption; also, if you look at the larger size of that image, you’ll get a very good understanding of its size; it’s shorter than the length of my thumb (and I mean from tip of nose to tip of tail); this indeed was a young’un in every sense of the word]
Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
— Carl Sandburg
…these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
— Herman Melville, Moby Dick
There are times when I ponder how much of the predator I take for granted, how safe I assume myself to be when in the presence of master hunters. But years of love and pure trust cannot restrain the killers hiding behind gentle purrs.
When Grendel began suffering from debilitating asthma attacks—before we knew what was happening, we visited a veterinary specialist to have an ultrasound performed. Our fear? Cardiomyopathy. The prognosis included an unrecoverable illness and a short life.
Standing in a room of cold metal furniture and porcelain tile, where even the fluorescent light cast pale shadows made of sickly forms, tears welled up in my eyes as I pondered the future of Sponge, of the cat who knew no strangers.
Curtly, as though describing some experimental object with no feelings, the doctor explained how the exam would be performed and what I should expect. I made clear then that Grendel should be given anesthesia. The doctor disagreed.
He called for a veterinary assistant to help manage the situation, after which I placed Grendel on a slab of metal and told him everything would be alright.
But I lied, something I did not know at the time.
The moment the vet turned on the clipping shears to shave away a bit of fur to make way for the ultrasound equipment, my little tiger became a ferocious beast.
All four paws pierced the doctor’s hands with splayed claws expertly utilized, each sinking deep and penetrating flesh until the vet dared not move. And in the blink of an eye this gentle feline turned and bit through to the bone of one the of the veterinary assistant’s hands.
Meanwhile, I tried my best to calm and sooth the savage beast, to assure him no harm was meant and no harm would occur. This had the unfortunate side effect of placing one of my hands directly in the path of destruction.
Grendel’s teeth pierced my skin and went clean through to the other side of my hand—from both directions.
Then in the blink of an eye, a movement so quick as to be invisible to we humans, he released each of us, stood, turned, leaped from the table, scurried to the opposite side of the room, and promptly sat in a corner and watched us with the same compassion-filled eyes I’ve come to expect from him. It was as though he immediately regretted the mayhem, that he understood the cries of pain were caused by him. . .and he found it distasteful.
As for me, I could see clean through my hand. Two holes made for a perfect view.
Needless to say, the doctor followed my advice and used anesthesia (gas) to ensure a less deadly exam. He also assured me he would not report the wounds to the state as required by law, especially considering they resulted purely from his own negligence and failure to abide by my wishes. Good thing, too, for I would have owned that veterinary clinic before it was over.
But the point is this: Melville was right about how we too often ignore the dangers lurking beneath the dreamy quietude. Whether it be the ocean, a thunderstorm, raging rapids, or a beloved animal sharing our home, we must respect nature, respect what she can do without warning. We must always respect the beast she represents.
Do I ever fear Grendel? Or the other cats? Of course not. Even at that moment when I stood looking through my hand watching blood waterfall into the sink, I knew he meant no harm. We caused the episode. He merely acted in self-defense like all living things would.
Yet even now when I think of that moment, I realize within each of The Kids rests a slayer who only several thousand years ago was a wild animal, and that wild animal still lies within, wrestling just under the surface for the right trigger to set it free. Thus is nature.