Pondering The Animal Question
I’ve called myself an Animal Person for close to 30 years. But what does that say about me? That I like animals? If so, to what extent? Would you assume that maybe I’m the proud owner of a spectacular specimen such as a Pekinese dog or a Siamese cat? Would you assume I stop for injured animals? Am I vegetarian? Do I refuse to wear fur but wear leather? Do I boycott corporations and charities that test on animals? Am I a misanthrope? Exactly how does my animal person-ness manifest?
For the past two decades, I’ve been forced to ponder The Animal Question, similar to the way I imagine men in the late 19th century pondered the woman question: grudgingly, because they couldn’t avoid it. What is the place of animals in our lives? What is our place in relation to them? Why are we all here? Was there some kind of divine mandate that made us the boss of them? And if we’re all here to learn lessons or else continue to encounter the same challenges over and over, what’s the place of animals in such a karmic wheel?
When I say I couldn’t avoid pondering the question, it’s because I’ve been blessed, or cursed, with what as far as I know is a unique experience. Animals of all types, although the list is definitely heavy on cats and winged creatures, come into my life just as they are about to die. They show up completely unannounced—and usually uninvited —and before I can properly introduce myself, they croak. And often in pretty gruesome ways. The list is currently at over 100, and when I went to Santa Fe for a sweat lodge recently, I had the privilege of adding a tiny yellow-breasted warbler. And the day I returned, Opie the opossum was unfortunate enough to cross my path.
Somewhere around number 35, when I was in my late 20s and had been largely responsible for a ghastly cat death, my mother voiced her concern for my emotional well being and asked, in her all-too New York accent: Maryterasa, why do you do this to yourself? Why do you insist on causing yourself so much pain? Now, she’s a psychotherapist and part-time Buddhist, which means that there are no accidents and everything’s your fault, so her reaction was understandable.
After a year, I determined that the common denominator in all of the deaths was indeed me. I had a role in the drama. But that doesn’t mean my role was that of masochist. Maybe the animals came to me because I had something to give them. Maybe they knew that if they confronted me with their near-mortality, they could get something from me that would make their passing easier in some way.
It was then that I made a conscious decision to welcome any creature wanting to die in my presence, and to express my gratitude for the honor. I would surround them with love and appreciation, and do my best to listen to anything they wanted to say.
When I noticed that either they weren’t saying much or I didn’t have the proper hearing apparatus, I figured the next best thing was for me to find some kind of lesson in the encounter. There’s always wisdom to be gained from being so close to death. And when you find that wisdom—and incorporate it into your own life—you prevent the death from being in vain. You honor the life by learning from the death. Easy enough.
Learning is a messy process, though, and even the most compassionate people do more harm than good sometimes, despite their intentions. My intention was always to reduce suffering, which sounds like a simple premise. But over the years I began to wonder when it was my job as a human being to intervene. Then I began to wonder whether it was my job at all. It took me two decades and a lot of hurt to sort it all out, and I’m still left with dozens of issues I call Gray Matters: things I cannot comfortably resolve with any kind of unequivocal statement.
My hope is that my experiences as an “animal hospice,” as friends have called me, will help others avoid my mistakes, and see their relationship to the animal life around them through a different lens. Perhaps some will be seeing it for the first time. When you witness the families of other species living, breeding, building or seeking shelter, playing, and grieving, it’s difficult not to think that they have as much of a right to live their lives in peace as we do. But the defining moments for all of us have nothing to do with such thoughts. The defining moments are when our actions tell the world what we believe.
