The REAL Dumbledore.
"If you want to know what a man is like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." -- Albus Dumbledore
This past summer has been teeming with critters for me. And while I long for the nostalgia of a cold, crisp, supernatural autumn (see the new Ridley page), I must first say goodbye to the aesthetics of summer - fireflies floating in the magic forest that is my backyard, crickets that lull me to sleep every night. And, too, the pond of the tadpoles. It was a hot, sweltering week where not even the wisp of a cloud valiantly sailed through the sky to attack the tyrant sun, and I knew, thumping my staff along the pathway to the stream, that it would be the water creatures that suffered. I'd seen it once before that summer
What was a lively puddle a week ago was a cracked, dry depression the other day. Heartbreaking, truly, to see
the dark spots that I knew deep down
were not algae or mud but withered tadpoles.
I would not let it happen again.
So I filled a pail of water and bumped down the bikepath with the pail, three water bottles, and a flask, to fill the pond with what little extra water I could muster. Mind you, the puddle is about a ten minute's walk at a leisurely pace, five minutes if I'm speeding it. I made it there spilling the lest amount of water possible and dumped it in. Then, with Dad's help (Hi, Dad. You're in this blog a lot), I collected a handful of tadpoles, as seen above, to save just in case that water was not enough.
Brought them home. The next day, it rained and I knew this effort had all been unnecessary.
But oh dear.
Now I've grown attached to them.
So I keep my tadpoles, feeding them, as the internet instructs, lettuce. They didn't like the lettuce.
They liked...each other.
And so one day, I woke up to find twelve tadpoles become eight. Eight become five. And I intervened as fast as possible, but it was hard to notice the losses at the time.
Thus, the survivors (who, morbidly, I assume were the ones who did the eating?) were separated and fittingly given tough names. Brutus. Chomper. Fang. And Spike.
the dark spots that I knew deep down
were not algae or mud but withered tadpoles.
I would not let it happen again.
So I filled a pail of water and bumped down the bikepath with the pail, three water bottles, and a flask, to fill the pond with what little extra water I could muster. Mind you, the puddle is about a ten minute's walk at a leisurely pace, five minutes if I'm speeding it. I made it there spilling the lest amount of water possible and dumped it in. Then, with Dad's help (Hi, Dad. You're in this blog a lot), I collected a handful of tadpoles, as seen above, to save just in case that water was not enough.
Brought them home. The next day, it rained and I knew this effort had all been unnecessary.
But oh dear.
Now I've grown attached to them.
So I keep my tadpoles, feeding them, as the internet instructs, lettuce. They didn't like the lettuce.
They liked...each other.
And so one day, I woke up to find twelve tadpoles become eight. Eight become five. And I intervened as fast as possible, but it was hard to notice the losses at the time.
Thus, the survivors (who, morbidly, I assume were the ones who did the eating?) were separated and fittingly given tough names. Brutus. Chomper. Fang. And Spike.
Long story short, two died from awful circumstances of their water zipping up into the air when too much sun hit them. I blessed them in holy water and tried not to cry. (That was not a joke. This post is about how we treat our inferiors and I declare now that I do not treat my inferiors, I love and emotionally invest and cherish in their little life).
And in my genuine compassion to save their lives, I fear I...I perhaps killed more than what nature would have taken care of. While I do feel bad about it, I also feel like any tiny life we encounter was given meaning by our loving it. Or if that's too emotional for you, by our respecting it. Though their lives were short, I hope I gave them meaning by letting another being love in them.
And in my genuine compassion to save their lives, I fear I...I perhaps killed more than what nature would have taken care of. While I do feel bad about it, I also feel like any tiny life we encounter was given meaning by our loving it. Or if that's too emotional for you, by our respecting it. Though their lives were short, I hope I gave them meaning by letting another being love in them.
Herbert S. Megale
There is something evoked in our depths by loving an animal. It is loving what we are not. Loving what can only be loved by us. I do believe animals can truly, authentically love. Even crustaceans like my hermies. We say they cannot for they are bred for instinct and yet how can we know they do not feel it, or are perhaps so alarmed and uncertain about such feelings they are not capable of reaction? We've all seen the photo of the bird weeping over its fallen companion. Animals love. And having a living creature totter its antennae and stare at you with those blank yet benign black eyes while it crawls over your fingers allows us both the recognition of ourselves and the occasion to champion hand soap corporations.
So. What happened to those two remaining tadpoles, you ask? This is what happened:
So. What happened to those two remaining tadpoles, you ask? This is what happened:
Why did many of our ancestors worship animals? Why did they arm themselves with talismans in their honor? Did zoolatry (the worship of animals) ever develop for a deeper meaning? I have a theory. In our world and our lives, we are always uncertain. We've never known. We've always wondered and always sought for our meaning, staring at the moon and stars and not only recognizing their gift of light and measurement, but wondering who we are.
Glenny, my former summer turtle, and I.
Animals always seem to know. They've always come across as if they know what they are doing; their roles are stagnant and confident they seem within them. And, to me...they always seem to know where they are going after this, too.
So I guess this is where I publicly contradict myself.
...Are they our inferiors? Or are they just another being serving its purpose in this world and waiting to be known?
I came across this recently. And forgive its somewhat crude nature.
So I guess this is where I publicly contradict myself.
...Are they our inferiors? Or are they just another being serving its purpose in this world and waiting to be known?
I came across this recently. And forgive its somewhat crude nature.
And when I read it, I simply had to comment. Simply had to rebuttal. Because while this may be true in some environmental regards (and was offered for a harmless chuckle), I felt it had entirely, unacceptably misunderstood the nature of our world.
To me, just like us, it is the sound of millions of animals, birds, and insects desperately trying to find each other.
-- S/
And by the way. Yes. I'll answer the question. I'll settle the heated debates right now, so stop ignoring the Presidential debates to focus on this topic. While I love ALL animals, since I ADORE and consider THESE as EQUIVALENT FAMILY, I hereby STATE...
I am a dog person.
To me, just like us, it is the sound of millions of animals, birds, and insects desperately trying to find each other.
-- S/
And by the way. Yes. I'll answer the question. I'll settle the heated debates right now, so stop ignoring the Presidential debates to focus on this topic. While I love ALL animals, since I ADORE and consider THESE as EQUIVALENT FAMILY, I hereby STATE...
I am a dog person.
Proudly.
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