My name was Herring Snapper. This is a really awkward translation along the lines of Cross-eyed Girl Who Was Born on a Wet Tuesday rather than Harracom. I can't tell you what my real name was because you can't speak Porpoise. And for that matter, now that I have transmigrated into this new shell, neither can I, but I remember it. It was a lovely name, and apt as I was very fond of herring.
It seems that some things don't come with us as we move from husk to husk, as I am not all that fond of herring today.
Oh, how I loved herring clouds when millions of those flashing, dashing little creatures could be rounded up into a sparkling, writhing ball and then you'd plunge into the middle of it, the flash of their dancing, silver bodies surreal, hypnotic. But then you'd come out the other side with a mouthful, and then do it again and again, in brisk competition with the gannets, whales, and any other hungry passers-by. Plenty for all until it was gone and the sea was empty again. Then, well-fed and content we'd cruise away toward nowhere in particular, looking for our next meal, but without urgency.
Then there were the storms. We kept low as much as we could, and moved away toward calmer seas, where the wind wasn't so cruel. We had to get a breath of air from time to time and that moment, breaking the roiling surface, could be frightening, but also exhilarating in an odd way. It was only a moment of exposure to the surface tumult and then a return to the serenity of the deep. The whole sea throbbed at the height of the storm, like someone beating on a drum full of water.
I miss all that. I miss being able to travel in 3 dimensions, fast and slow and then stop, rest, and look around, suspended. Such total freedom. Then arcing up out of the water and splashing back down, a whole different intoxication.
I remember all this, but only in my dreams. I like to think I was skillful and triumphant in the choreographed hunting parties they talk about on nature shows, but I am at best an indifferent team player now, and maybe that was a carry-over from last time.
As for my next iteration, I have looked around at possibilities and there are not a lot of really attractive ones.
I would love to step into the life of a snow leopard. Such grace. Such beauty. But so near extinction. I would hate to start life on those rugged mountain slopes, the royalty of the crags, only to be brought low by a Russian poacher and my beautiful fur sold to clothe some fat capitalist's tacky mistress.
Or an elephant. Another target of our bloodthirsty species, but perhaps a fighting chance, except for the dangers of climate change. It's worth considering. I would love to be able to make those deep throaty sounds they use to chat with their friends miles away. Or to stroll across the veldt ripping up trees and striking terror in the hearts of lions and leopards and such.
All of the conspicuously fun creatures are at the mercy of the Almighty Us, and we are not going to relinquish our murderous ways, so what else is there? Preferably something we cannot or will not extinguish. Preferably something intelligent.
I don't fancy being an insect. Too many legs and no sign of a philosophical bent.
And not pigeons: too stupid and too twitchy for a good conversation.
A cat? A dog? This is a bit of a gamble. There's a chance of landing a Really Nice life. Loving home with silken pillows and chopped liver, or at least food and a warm floor, but sometimes pet owners get carried away with surgical alterations and euthanasia, not to mention the perils of life in the alleys if the coin toss is unfortunate. There you would have to deal with other hungry residents like larger strays, junkies, rats and what not. Best to steer clear of that world, and that pretty well leaves rats or coyotes.
Back when I lived in Vermont, there was a small patch of woodland up behind my house that played host to a family of coyotes. Every year the local macho men, including some women, would stomp through the woods in their camo and insect spray, clutching their semiautomatics and searching these creatures out because they were attacking their cows. This was nonsense, of course, but it gave them an excuse to shoot something. Right after the annual purge the chipmunk population would blossom. I have a parka with a coyote fur ruff around the hood as a reminder of their vulnerability. So not a coyote, then.
Rats. Rats get a bad rap. They only spread disease if the disease is there to begin with. They can be friendly and fun if given the chance, and they are clever little fellows as is clearly demonstrated by their tweaking the noses of those who wish them ill. It's true their life expectancy even under ideal conditions is pretty short, but it might be a good way station between now and what's next.
So if one day after I have waddled off into The Great Mystery, you hear a gnawing under your porch, be kind. Put a bit of hot dog out by the garage.
And thank you.
It seems that some things don't come with us as we move from husk to husk, as I am not all that fond of herring today.
Oh, how I loved herring clouds when millions of those flashing, dashing little creatures could be rounded up into a sparkling, writhing ball and then you'd plunge into the middle of it, the flash of their dancing, silver bodies surreal, hypnotic. But then you'd come out the other side with a mouthful, and then do it again and again, in brisk competition with the gannets, whales, and any other hungry passers-by. Plenty for all until it was gone and the sea was empty again. Then, well-fed and content we'd cruise away toward nowhere in particular, looking for our next meal, but without urgency.
Then there were the storms. We kept low as much as we could, and moved away toward calmer seas, where the wind wasn't so cruel. We had to get a breath of air from time to time and that moment, breaking the roiling surface, could be frightening, but also exhilarating in an odd way. It was only a moment of exposure to the surface tumult and then a return to the serenity of the deep. The whole sea throbbed at the height of the storm, like someone beating on a drum full of water.
I miss all that. I miss being able to travel in 3 dimensions, fast and slow and then stop, rest, and look around, suspended. Such total freedom. Then arcing up out of the water and splashing back down, a whole different intoxication.
I remember all this, but only in my dreams. I like to think I was skillful and triumphant in the choreographed hunting parties they talk about on nature shows, but I am at best an indifferent team player now, and maybe that was a carry-over from last time.
As for my next iteration, I have looked around at possibilities and there are not a lot of really attractive ones.
I would love to step into the life of a snow leopard. Such grace. Such beauty. But so near extinction. I would hate to start life on those rugged mountain slopes, the royalty of the crags, only to be brought low by a Russian poacher and my beautiful fur sold to clothe some fat capitalist's tacky mistress.
Or an elephant. Another target of our bloodthirsty species, but perhaps a fighting chance, except for the dangers of climate change. It's worth considering. I would love to be able to make those deep throaty sounds they use to chat with their friends miles away. Or to stroll across the veldt ripping up trees and striking terror in the hearts of lions and leopards and such.
All of the conspicuously fun creatures are at the mercy of the Almighty Us, and we are not going to relinquish our murderous ways, so what else is there? Preferably something we cannot or will not extinguish. Preferably something intelligent.
I don't fancy being an insect. Too many legs and no sign of a philosophical bent.
And not pigeons: too stupid and too twitchy for a good conversation.
A cat? A dog? This is a bit of a gamble. There's a chance of landing a Really Nice life. Loving home with silken pillows and chopped liver, or at least food and a warm floor, but sometimes pet owners get carried away with surgical alterations and euthanasia, not to mention the perils of life in the alleys if the coin toss is unfortunate. There you would have to deal with other hungry residents like larger strays, junkies, rats and what not. Best to steer clear of that world, and that pretty well leaves rats or coyotes.
Back when I lived in Vermont, there was a small patch of woodland up behind my house that played host to a family of coyotes. Every year the local macho men, including some women, would stomp through the woods in their camo and insect spray, clutching their semiautomatics and searching these creatures out because they were attacking their cows. This was nonsense, of course, but it gave them an excuse to shoot something. Right after the annual purge the chipmunk population would blossom. I have a parka with a coyote fur ruff around the hood as a reminder of their vulnerability. So not a coyote, then.
Rats. Rats get a bad rap. They only spread disease if the disease is there to begin with. They can be friendly and fun if given the chance, and they are clever little fellows as is clearly demonstrated by their tweaking the noses of those who wish them ill. It's true their life expectancy even under ideal conditions is pretty short, but it might be a good way station between now and what's next.
So if one day after I have waddled off into The Great Mystery, you hear a gnawing under your porch, be kind. Put a bit of hot dog out by the garage.
And thank you.