Once upon a time there was a Canada goose. She was a magnificent
fowl, as fowls generally are. She was covered with feathers and had a
beak. Her name was Betty.
Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose. Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom. Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks. Betty wanted more.
One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over. There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something. Whatever it was, it looked powerful. It looked strong. It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine. Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.
She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed. She banked. She banked some more. She was dizzy with love. And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.
Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.
How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine? Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."
Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage. Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose. And indeed it can be savage. Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate. Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for. Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!! 'Tis a very brutal world.
No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.
Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name. She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry." Perhaps she did think of him as Larry. We have no way of knowing, of course. What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades. "Larry" was a lawn mower. He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.
In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower. He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.
It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise. Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.
Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower. Poor Bud.
And poor Betty.
First Published Oct. 10, 2009.
Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose. Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom. Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks. Betty wanted more.
One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over. There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something. Whatever it was, it looked powerful. It looked strong. It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine. Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.
She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed. She banked. She banked some more. She was dizzy with love. And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.
Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.
How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine? Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."
Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage. Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose. And indeed it can be savage. Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate. Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for. Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!! 'Tis a very brutal world.
No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.
Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name. She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry." Perhaps she did think of him as Larry. We have no way of knowing, of course. What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades. "Larry" was a lawn mower. He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.
In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower. He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.
It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise. Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.
Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower. Poor Bud.
And poor Betty.
First Published Oct. 10, 2009.
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