It appears, for a change, that I might actually get to teach a class tonight. And if you want to pretend you're there with me, you can read the essay we'll be discussing: E. B. White's Death of a Pig, one of the finest considerations of the human-animal relationship ever written. I'll be rereading it myself this morning, here in my little blue room, sitting in my yellow armchair beside the window, lifting my head now and then to gaze out over snowy fences and toolsheds and packs of self-satisfied squirrels.
Speaking of self-satisfied, today is Ruckus's fifth birthday, and so far that fathead has celebrated by clawing up the couch and threatening to drink paint water. Once he ate a tack, just to see what I would do. And yet here he is: enthusiastically healthy and as vain as a Kardashian. Apparently if you're a cat, it's excellent luck to be born on the ides of March.
2 comments:
First, happiest of days to Ruckus!
Then...the EB White essay reminds me of Galway Kinnell's poem "St Francis and the Sow" for many of the same reasons. Interconnectivity is something that is lost, both between people and animals and between people themselves. I suspect that this emotional/intellectual isolationism is a substantial cause of what ails us as a species, and the bitter fruit we are harvesting these days is the result. Stewardship is a burden we should willingly bear, yet too many people choose not to engage, seeking only to benefit themselves and their immediate desires.
Sigh.
Happy Ruckus Day!!!
After photography Club, I’ll be heading to the inaugural meeting of the local poetry group. It was even an invitation.!
Happy Class!
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