This was just a morning thought before coffee so don't get crazy on me.
I woke up thinking about the pets I've had over the years. I've had parakeets, and other birds. Rabbits and Guinea Pigs. A big white Long Island duck I raised from a chick...or duckling I guess. But it was Easter back in the fifties before politically correct was a thought, and he grew and grew, and his flat duckling beak didn't grow into a sharp chicken beak, and his webbed toes just got bigger. There are extensive stories I can tell about him because he lived for a very long time.
As a young child I didn't have a dog, but I did have a few cats. I didn't get a dog until I was sixteen. He's another story. There were also a few experiences trying to keep goldfish alive. And a yard rescue or two of squirrels. Nevertheless the revelation that struck me was how all these various species managed to eventually integrate into our family. Socialize with us humans. They learned to put up with us, even managed to communicate what they needed from us. Managed to get the message across. I have to go out. I need water. Pet me.
Even farm animals acclimate themselves to the routines they form with the ranchers and farmers. Every thing and every one has a purpose. A place. When a baby is born, a new calf, a chick, a duckling, they become part of the new whole.
Why can't we humans get along? I'm not a philosopher and there are people and animals I'm not fond of, but they still deserve a place to live in peace. Not on my couch, but they can live next door and get their own couch. I'll even help them carry it in.
Be nice if you comment. I'm seventy-one and I've seen a lot. I know this sounds like a naive question...even
a ridiculous question, because if there's anything I'm not any more--it's naive. Just thinking aloud...