Animals

ANIMALS
JENNY RABBIT’S LIFE with animals did not really begin until after college, after she had found a comfortable job, after she had married, and then after she had divorced. There were no kids--the marriage lasted all of nine months--and so, although never easy, the divorce went relatively smooth, swift, and unencumbered.
She bought a dog: a pup--a black Lab--that was not a pup for long. She--her name was Camel--grew and grew and grew, and soon weighed more than ninety pounds. Jenny had no papers on her, but was nevertheless assured that she was pure-bred. Which was fine with Jenny: who needs papers when the animal’s already in your possession?
Her coloring made heads turn: coal-raven-jet black; and her head was broad and handsome.
Of course, Jenny and Camel became friends immediately. They walked together, they traveled together, they ate together; they even slept together. But more important than any of that, they enjoyed music together. They really enjoyed music together. In the evenings they would often sit in the front room, with the fireplace unlit--Jenny in her favorite cushioned rocking chair, reading; and Camel asleep on a rug at her feet--and listen to the recordings of Chopin’s piano concertos, or Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, or Beethoven’s Ninth, or Rachmaninov’s choral pieces. They never tired of "Vespers."
But it wasn’t always formal music they listened to; they liked contemporary as well: Sinead O’Connor, Jenny thought, had the finest voice alive; and the guitar work of Leo Kottke, Harvey Reid, and Margaret Open were, to her mind, some of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. After a year of listening to music together--longer than she had been married--Jenny decided that she wanted to learn to play an instrument herself. The choice was obvious.
She bought the guitar, and her life changed again. No more was she content to sit in her rocking chair and read; no longer was she satisfied with just stroking behind the ears of Camel; and never again would she be happy with life in a chair in a room with a dog. Now she sat, still in the chair, still with the dog, but no longer rocking, no longer reading, but rather playing the guitar.
She was neither quick nor slow to learn. She had just picked up the instrument as any other human being who wanted to play would, and began. The result was that Camel no longer slept at her feet while she sat in her rocker. Now Camel sat up, leaned against Jenny’s leg, licked her toes when her shoes were off, and sometimes sang along in her soft, peculiar howl, or--other times--just placed her head across Jenny’s lap and looked up into her dear friend’s face while the music floated between them.
Jenny seldom looked back at Camel while she played. Instead, she concentrated on her music: on the chords, her fingering, a melody line, a bass run. Sometimes she stared off at a corner
where the ceiling and two walls met. But one evening, just as she had finished work on a composition of her own, she set down the guitar and reached for Camel’s head, which had been resting on her knees as she played. She scratched and rubbed under the jaw, dug with her fingers down the front of the neck, across the broad, muscled shoulders; and then Jenny looked into Camel’s eyes. Camel had been watching Jenny all the while, never once losing contact. But now they continued looking at each other--the dog and the human. Camel cocked her head, as Labs sometimes do; and they continued to look at each other. Into each other. Time stood still--or, anyway, it slowed. Something happened to time.
The moment stretched outward, curling about the room. Jenny continued to look into the eyes of Camel. And as she did, she began to feel extremely close to this one other member of the animal kingdom. She continued to look into the eyes of her friend; she began to be drawn to her, to be pulled toward her, to share something with her--though of what she was unsure.
And then--perhaps it was during a shared blink--Jenny Rabbit entered into the mind of her pet friend Camel; joined the soul of her dog friend Camel; entered the world of her good friend Camel--became, ultimately, her best friend Camel. And in that moment she began to see the world as a dog--as dog--sees the world. What she saw, quite naturally, frightened her: The walls of the living room looked different; the fireplace took on an unusual quality; the rug shimmered in the altered light; and she saw herself as she had never before imagined. In all of this she was unsure of what she had done--what she had seen-–only that it was something different–-something troubling and unsettling: something entirely new.
But, alas, as with most moments, it passed as quickly as it dawned; and Jenny pushed it from her mind.
Two weeks later, however, she and Camel shared another moment together. Again, they sat in the front room with the unlit fireplace; Jenny played the guitar; Camel sat licking her toes. At the end of her practice, Jenny, as usual, set down the guitar, bent forward, and stroked Camel’s jawline, rubbed her neck, her shoulders. Their eyes made contact, and this time, more quickly than before, Jenny entered Camel’s consciousness. Details grew in clarity: the walls of the room became absurd; the fireplace, preposterous; the window, ridiculous; the pictures on the wall, mad; the walls themselves, madness; the door to the outside, offensive; the rug, vulgar; the guitar, a facade; and then, from her newfound dog angle, she looked up to herself, sitting alone in the inane rocking chair, stroking the head of herself, the dog, looking back into the eyes of herself, the fool, and saw–-the vile thing: the obscene, vicious, ugly lie.
Suddenly she snapped out of it and returned to the safety of the human form, to the security of her own mind-cage.
But Jenny Rabbit was altered--changed. It was only a little, but it was enough to make a difference. For a long moment, she sat motionless in her favorite rocking chair, waiting for normalcy to return, waiting for the trembling under her clothing to subside, waiting and looking about the room as the memory slipped back–-back and away from her own memory--back and away to where it felt more comfortable: way far back from her actual consciousness–-though still very much there, still very much inside her head, deep inside her head--hiding.
* * * * * * *
The following week Jenny was walking home from work and looking forward to an evening with Camel, her guitar, the rocking chair, the fireplace, and the rest of her house. She stopped, as was her habit, at the bakery to pick up a pastry. But as she stepped back out onto the sidewalk, a strange orange-striped cat walked up to her and began to rub against her leg. Again, as was her custom, Jenny sat down at one of the patio tables outside the bakery. The cat followed, continuing to rub its shoulder and ribs against her. Jenny ate and--done--reached down to pet her new-found acquaintance. The cat began to purr. Jenny continued to pet and stroke. The cat looked upward into Jenny’s face, purring the whole while. Jenny scratched the neck, the shoulders--ran her hand down and across its back, the tail rising as she reached the end of its body. The cat turned and rubbed its other side against Jenny’s leg, and again looked up into her face. Jenny looked back, made eye contact; they held each other’s gaze.
They held each other’s gaze.
Their eyes locked, and then it happened again: Jenny began to feel extremely close to this one other member of the animal kingdom; she began to feel drawn to her, to be pulled toward her, to share experience with her. And then, as before, though much more quickly this time, for the pattern had been set, Jenny Rabbit entered into the mind of the cat--entered into the world of the cat--saw the world as cat sees the world--saw herself as cat sees her. Once more, unease took hold; the outside world changed, altered, took on the unusual quality. And then, without warning, cat spoke--or rather, Jenny translated cat thoughts into human words: "I hate you; I loathe you. Oh!"
Jenny snapped away and, in her mind, ran down the street. Physically, she still sat at the table trying to collect herself, but her mind fled the scene. Eventually, she gathered up her things and walked briskly home, occasionally looking back over her shoulder at the cat, which had jumped up onto the patio table and was now sniffing at the crumbs on the abandoned paper plate.
Jenny’s music that night soared more beautifully, it seemed to her, than ever before. Camel laid her head on her lap and listened while Jenny played and played, avoiding making any eye contact with her canine friend.
* * * * * * *
Jenny’s encounter with the cat once again left her unsettled, unnerved; troubled and rattled. For several weeks she barely ventured out of the house–-for fear of another incident. She went to work, to be sure, did her shopping and errands, as one must. But she limited her outside jaunts–-or combined them--so that she could come home immediately. She stopped going to the bakery altogether. She began using her car more often.
One Saturday afternoon, at home in the front room with her guitar and Camel and the fireplace unlit, she heard a loud thud against the bay window. She looked up, saw nothing, but Camel began to whine and pace about. Jenny soothed her and then went to the window to look outside. In the flower bed below lay a bird, a robin, quivering–-stunned from its flight into the glass. Feathers lay beside the motionless creature.
Jenny ran outside and, with a towel she had grabbed on her way out, picked up the injured thing. Its legs twitched, one wing jutted out at an awkward angle; the beak was partially opened, and one eye looked upward, unmoving. Jenny dabbed at the head with a corner of the towel, and the bird turned in her hand. Her heart went out to the bird–-she hated suffering. She felt for the bird--wished there were something she could do for the bird. She leaned over the bird to inspect it for life. With a finger she stroked the short, thick feathers at the neck, the short, red feathers at the breast. She noted a heartbeat. The robin’s head turned and looked up into Jenny’s face. The tiny eye moved about uncontrollably, seemed to be trying to focus, and then locked onto Jenny’s big eye. Jenny looked back, peered into the tiny bead, and then tried to look away. But it was too late.
The thing happened again.
She felt herself moving, being pulled--being drawn--very deliberately toward the robin she held in her hands. Their eyes locked in a gaze; time slowed; their breathing coincided; Jenny felt the heartbeat of the robin in her hand, felt her own pulse conform with the robin’s. And then she felt herself entering into the mind of robin, joining the soul of robin. And once again, she began to see the world as animals see the world; she saw herself, Jenny, as robin sees her, Jenny.
Jenny the human looked at Jenny the robin and simultaneously listened and spoke to both her and herself. Their beak opened and shut, opened and shut, opened. They leaned toward each other. A single word issued forth, in a crisp New England accent: "Window." Followed quickly by the definite article and noun, a clarification: "The window."
Human Jenny pulled back, startled, almost shaken from the connection. But she held on, kept looking, kept listening, kept learning, and peered squarely into the eye of robin. No more words came out, but the meaning of the gaze, of the locked eyes--the flow of thought itself--now translated into human English: "I hate you." A blink. "And you are unable-–you are incapable--of understanding just how much I hate you; or why I must hate you."
Jenny dropped the bird, whereupon it shook in a final spasm, and died.
* * * * * * *
Jenny never fully recovered from her experience with the bird. She kept working at her good job; she had to work. She continued to run her errands; had to do that too. But she remained more and more in her own home--ventured out less and less. Became more and more withdrawn; less and less free; more and more confused; less and less sure of herself: More and more free. Her musical compositions revealed a steady disintegration of melody line, a slow deterioration of sound, and a quiet sliding toward chaos and truth.
Spring that year, wet and following a wetter winter, was thick with insects, the worst in 35 years. The newspapers said so.
Jenny’s house felt the effect. The flies and gnats and mosquitoes were everywhere. Jenny went so far as to erect a net around her bed to protect herself from the pests. She’d wake up in the morning to the hum and buzz of mosquitoes; and then she’d fend her way through the fly-infested kitchen and shoo them off her breakfast. In the evening, after work, she’d douse herself with repellent, keeping the gnats at a distance. Still, they’d swarm and hover and dance right in her face, staring her in the eye, a thousand tiny eyes all trying to get at her eyes; a thousand tiny wings all whirring and humming in her ears. Jenny would swish with her hand to keep them away; for even though they could not land directly on her body--couldn’t touch her as they wished to touch her--their presence was a constant worse than any literal contact.
Once, on the verge of insanity, Jenny charged into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind herself, and began duct-taping along the floor and the door frame–-her feeble attempt at peace. But the gnats were already there--had already rushed in right along with her--before she could close the door--where they formed a cloud above and around her in the limited space. In her madness, Jenny grabbed a towel, flailing in a rage, killing with deliberateness, swinging with abandon. She swung and swung and pressed and smeared and squished the little devils against the walls, the door, the window, the toilet seat, the mirror. And finally, after twenty minutes of slaughter, the room lay quiet--quiet but for Jenny Rabbit’s own breathing, her own panting, which now echoed against the mirror, where her head rested.
After a moment Jenny opened her eyes and looked into the mirror: at her own face, her hair, the curve of cheek and nose and chin; her skull; the bone structure; the openings of mouth and nostril and eye. She placed her hands to her face–-on her face--felt the texture of skin, stroked the skin, the jawline, rubbed her neck. She looked herself in the eye, noted the color, noted the circle within the circle: the pupil and iris and cornea. The eyes locked. She held the look. And as she did, she felt herself being pulled inward--inward, toward her own self. Inward, toward her own identity. Inward, just inward and toward. And in the altering light of self-reflection, Jenny felt herself entering herself. She looked again into her own eyes--deep and hard into her own eyes--and began to see the world as Jenny sees the world, to see the world as the world sees Jenny. As a human sees a human. She looked and looked again--looked hard and harder still-–deep and deeper still--and saw in herself humanity; saw in herself her own humanity, her own human-ness: her own profound redundancy.