Because Everyone Could Use A Story About A Duck

    I remembered this essay I wrote a few years ago and thought I would share it. Enjoy. 

    They say that a dog is a man's best friend, and when mine unexpectedly left me for the great unknowns of the after-life, I was left without one. Loneliness enveloped my heart. I found myself looking for a new friend to claim that aching spot. I researched long and hard, and after my living situation turned down my hopes of raising a hedgehog, I stumbled upon something I had not imagined. If you were to ask me how I arrived at the conclusion that a duck, of all creatures would do the trick, I could not tell you, but sometimes it's the unexpected that brings happiness to a broken heart.

     Piper was a Peking duckling with fluffy yellow down, a pink bill, and feet webbed in between the toes with warm, paper-thin skin. He was a mostly docile little thing with a flair for the dramatic. It was either that or he just hated being alone. I had read on the internet that ducks were social creatures that are able to bond with humans, as long as contact with others of their kind was limited. Based upon that knowledge I tried my best to keep him away from the other ducklings I had acquired at the same time. Piper slept in a big box at the foot of my bed, and when I say he slept, I mean it in the loosest way possible. I would make sure his box was clean and ready for the night and then would gently set him down and walk away, my heart breaking as his shrill cries followed me down the hall. Piper was what you could call a social butterfly. If he wasn't cuddled up under someones neck, or stuffed head first in the crook of someones arm, he would squeak and try to put himself in one of those two spots. If I was unable to walk and balance his ever growing body on my arm, he was content to sleep in my purse while I shopped or did my chores. Piper and I were virtually inseparable. We both wanted it that way.

     It was soon after Piper arrived that I got my first job. This posed problems for quality time spent with my little duckling and my dreams of taking him for walks and training him to wear a diaper. I didn't give up though and soon designed a small stretchy diaper made out an old sock for him to wear. It worked for short periods of time where I could run about the house with him following close behind, his syndactilous feet slapping the ground like a fish out of water, his undersized wings flapping, and his 'wait for me' screams bringing the dogs from every corner of the house to see what all the raucous was about. It was during this period of waiting for him to get big enough for an official, professionally made diaper that I discovered something. While ducklings are cute, they will not hesitate to give you a run for your sanity. I would allow the fuzzy little bird to roam my bedroom freely, as long as he stayed mostly on the towel I spread out for him, but having a brain the size of peanut, Piper eliminated wherever he pleased. It became a regular thing for me to be consistently wiping up liquid excrement and constantly doing laundry, in response to the fact that Piper preferred to spend the majority of his time in my lap, or at least touching me in some formor fashion. Sometimes, when given free reign of the bedroom, he would bolt across the room with a waddling dash and send his food dish careening in the opposite direction, leaving me to fetch a vacuum, in hopes of removing every last pellet from from my floor.

     While Piper may have driven me crazy sometimes, just like any other pet would, we had really memorable times as well, like taking him to the grocery store and hoping he would stay quiet so we didn't get into trouble, lying on the couch and watching a movie with him snuggled up nice and close to my face, and having him sample my fingers and me kissing his bill. Bath time was always the favorite. I would fill up the tub with lukewarm water and watch as he paddled his little feet. He made me laugh when he would swiftly propel himself under the water like a frog, splashing water all over me and the floor, zooming around and around, with his eyes open, until he ran out of air and resurfaced.

    Piper grew and soon shed his soft down for grown up feathers, white as pearls, and almost as shiny. His neb and totipalmate feet matured into a lovely shade of orange. We were happy, but life soon got busy and when Piper was being left alone for the majority of the day, my heart began to hurt for his misfortune. I then did what I thought was best for my little billed darling. I reunited him with his long lost duckling friends, in the land of the grass and wind. Piper was happy with the companionship of his kind. When Piper was happy, so was I. A few weeks later, when I returned home from work, I was met with news that cut my soul out, and chopped it into a million pieces. Piper was gone. Like my previous animal companion, Piper had unwillingly abandoned me for the unknown world of death. A fox had stole in during the night and ripped my love away from me.

    My heart still aches for that flightless little bird. Every so often I peruse the pictures that are left from our life together. I can still feel his warm mouth nibbling at my eyelashes, and his fleecy down when I would bury my face in his warmth. I can still see his little black eyes staring at me like he understood my feelings. I can still hear his breath, his squeals, and the quack he gained as he grew. I still laugh at the memories of the times we would play dress up, and he would end up wearing a dress. They say a dog is a man's best friend, but I am not so sure; because sometimes, it's the unexpectedthat brings happiness to a broken heart. 

The Snake in the Room

     My snake died. Little baby Bird, who I kind of hated. It was as if guilt had tainted my adoration for him. The adoration I had imagined I'd have for him before I even had him. Every time I'd see that huge terrarium my stomach would tighten and that feeling would take over. But I couldn't get rid of him, right? I'd spent so long convincing my dad to let me, and doing research, and talking about it, I couldn't just get rid of him. I'd have to stick it out. All 30 years of the expected life-span of a ball python. Lucky for me, I didn't even have to deal with him for 30 days. It's not that I think snakes are bad pets or that I was incapable of caring for him. It was something else. It was that small whisper of doubt before the purchase. Maybe I shouldn't do this. But I couldn't think of reason why I shouldn't so I ignored it. I'll be happier with a snake. And cool. Snakes are cool. They are, but I wasn't happier. I was sick in my gut. But I had already bought the snake's stuff and the snake itself, and it was too late. But then he stopped eating, and I was worried. I had expected when I'd gotten him that I'd hold him all the time and train him to ride on my shoulders, but I hardly touched him. He hid under the rock in his tank and I rarely even looked in on him. He felt like a stranger, like some alien thing that I couldn't bear to touch but I knew I needed to so he'd get used to me. The other day I called my friend and asked her if she wanted the snake. I couldn't do it. While on the phone with her I went to get him out of the cage and when I lifted the rock up, Bird didn't move. I poked him. He still didn't move. Bird was dead. At first I was upset and angry because, as everyone knows, all my pets die. Then I felt bad because I was relieved. I wouldn't have to deal with the snake for 30 years. 

     I have to interject here and tell you that no dead anything smells as bad as a dead snake. Trust me, I've smelled a lot of dead things, and this was the worst. I could hardly breathe. The room was humid from the heat lamps and humidifier and the stench settled in the air heavy and suffocating. I had to get it out. I took a box in one hand, picked up his carcass with the other. His scales were sharp and loose and entirely wrong. His belly was blue from the blood. But that wasn't even the worst part. His jaws were clamped around his own body. My snake had tried to eat himself. The whole image is burned in my brain, and I get sick just thinking about it. In fact, that image pops into my head quite often. It's haunting.

     When the dead snake and his terrarium were no longer in my house, the window was open, and purifying oils were diffusing, I sat on my floor confused, and somewhat lost. This whole month has been a weird almost terrifying one. My mind has been muddled and unsure, and afraid. I've been regretful and somewhat hopeless. I've been dark and struggling. But I also felt that something was happening. Something I couldn't explain, and didn't understand. I just felt like something was going to happen, was happening. To me? I didn't know. So I sat there listening to a song and trying to understand, when it happened. That snake was a representation. He was my darkness, my sin, the evil human nature and it's desires. And it was gone. And it was gone from me too. My whole life I have longed to want to be light. To be clean and new. I used to say the salvation prayer at church youth gatherings just to feel that rebirth that everyone talks about. I wanted that fervor and that reassurance. But it never happened. I never felt any different. I attributed it to the fact that I had already said that prayer when I was little and that it only worked once. That I had already been reborn and couldn't be re-reborn. I was really bummed. I'd never understand. Never feel that because I didn't have some great turning to God story. But sitting on the floor in my bedroom confused and lost, I felt Him. I felt God in a way I never had before. I didn't say any sort of saving prayer. I said, why. What are you trying to tell me? I didn't hear a voice. I didn't hear an answer. I felt forgiveness. God didn't mean for me to buy that snake. He didn't want me to for some reason I can't explain. But I did. And it died, and I found God. I found that rebirth. My whole body and soul become clean and light and I felt forgiven. I felt free of that darkness I'd held on to. Suddenly, I didn't feel that draw anymore. I wanted nothing to do with it. I just wanted light and I wanted to be light. I wanted to love everyone, and be loved in return. I hadn't felt that way in a long time. In all my life, actually. And it didn't come at a religious gathering. It didn't happen with a salvation prayer. I became new. I found life, on the floor in my bedroom when I was lost.

     

     In life, we decide we want things. Like a snake. Or we're drawn to something dark and wrong. And maybe we rationalize it, and make it feel okay even though there's that little voice saying maybe not. But we give in. We get the pet, we let ourselves have a little darkness, and we think it'll make us happy. But then it sits in our home, in our room, near our bed, and we have to see it every day, and suddenly we think maybe we don't want it anymore but that it's too late and we'll just have to learn to live with it. And maybe we boast about it because we'll seem cooler that way. Shock value. But we know. Deep down where we don't want to admit it. I can't live with this. But the thing is, we don't have to. Once we're willing, once we're ready to be rid of that sin, that darkness, all we have to do is ask. All we have to do is want to be light, free. God looks into our inmost being and sees. I've wanted for a long time to get rid of that darkness but at the same time, I wanted it too much. But this month, I've realized that what I really want is to hear God. To feel His love, to get His direction. Even though I didn't realize it, He'd been working on me, on my heart. I've reached absolute depression and found the cure. That snake killed itself. And I killed my darkness. The guilt is gone. The darkness in the corner of my bedroom is gone. I'm new. I'm light. And light is all I want. I'm clean, and I thank God with every ounce of my being.

Love is Insanity

         In the second week after moving to Colorado, tragedy has already stricken. Today I buried my feline friend, Margaret Munchkin Kitty or Greta for short. She wasn't even two years old, but Mother Nature always has her way. I'm not new to this, to losing a pet, a companion. There was my dog, Bella, my cat's, Hattie, Tenny, and Astrid, and my fish, Doug and Sebastian. Every time I'm faced with the chance of a new pet, I always ask myself the same question. “Why are you getting another pet, they always seem to die.” And every time I bury them, I ask myself, “Why did you get another pet, you knew this would happen.” I don't know why I do this to myself. Why do I constantly put my heart out there? Why do I love when I know I'll just get hurt again? It's the definition of insanity. I do the same thing over and over expecting different results. So maybe love is insanity. Here we are, humans going about our lives, loving and losing and being insane. That's what humans do. That's what humans are. Why? I've come to the conclusion that, at least for me, it's having something to love, to care for, to rely on you. And I keep doing it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, one of them will live past two.

        As I watched my dad dig a hole in the dark, rich soil of Colorado, I thought to myself, I'm a pro at this. It shouldn't bother me anymore. Why do I still fight back tears? Why am I so human?Why do I keep loving? I recalled an episode of BBC Sherlock that I'd seen. I remembered a quote which Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, said to him.

       “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

       Maybe not. And maybe I tried not to care, not to feel. Maybe I stroked Greta's face and tried not to cry. But I did. Not a lot, but I cried. I don't know why. Maybe a feeling of yet another defeat. Another of my loves not living past two. What am doing wrong? I didn't make her ill. I cared for her as best as I knew how. None of my pets have died because of something I did. I mean, maybe if I had trained Bella, she wouldn't have gotten in the neighbors trash, and been shot. But I didn't shoot her. I didn't neglect any of my animals. Sure, maybe I should have cleaned out Sebastian's tank more often. Maybe I should have put a water heater in there for him. Regardless of what I did or didn't do, I keep trying. I keep loving. For those kisses, for those cuddles, for the excitement at feeding time. For the look of love and never hate or malice, I keep loving. I suppose, maybe it's worth it. To have loved and lost, rather than never loved at all. I'm so thankful for the time I had with Greta, and I'm going to miss her with my whole heart. Those big green eyes were worth every tear.

      Maybe I'm insane. But so is life.