June 28, 2006

• Prey

  There are two types of animals. Predators and Prey.

  And in case you don’t know, the simplistic definitions of them are that predators hunt to eat, prey get hunted.

  Predators come in all shapes and sizes, rely on inherent weapons like
  claws,
  fangs,           
  power. They are blessed with a cunning, honed intellect. When one
  thinks of a predator, it is a sleek animal, whip-quick with the death
  strike.

  Or else, they bring the gift of death through a series of constructed
  traps or orchestrated hunts. And
  usually,                 
  usually it is the weakest of prey that get picked off – the very young,
  the very old, the very sick.

  So prey animals have defenses to prolong their lives just enough to
  pass on genes. They have speed for frantic fleeing, fear. They rely on
  mimicry to save their lives. Hiding in plain sight, hiding within a
  group, and within that group, hiding their own individual weakness.

  Which is why it is so difficult to observe an illness in prey animals.
  They hide it well in order to survive, in order not to be the one that
  stands out from the crowd, in order not to be rejected protection of
  the group.

  So a parakeet suffering from neurological distress brought on by an
  infection will act like the rest of its flock, sitting on its perch,
  maybe eating and drinking a little, hopping about as if it’s well until
  you notice that one day, it is lying on the bottom of its cage, and you
  have to pick it up and look closer just to see the almost imperceptible
  rise and fall of its chest. They have fast metabolisms, these small
  rainbow singers, and illness left unnoticed, hidden by behavior that is
  supposed to prolong life, devours – consumes – the prey from inside.

  And that parakeet, driven to the vet for emergency treatment, handled
  and prodded by hands until it can take no more, hears the question that
  can bring the gift of death quickly or prolong its suffering, hears the
  answer in a familiar voice made unfamiliar by sorrow, and decides for
  itself. Sitting in the acrylic box with oxygen hissing in through tubes,
  the parakeet stretches its wings once more, displaying the lemon yellow
  of a forgotten memory, turns its head for one last look at tenderness,
  and departs the betrayal of its body.

  • 11:52 am
  • 2 Comments