2003.09.29 Too Much Life

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As is our custom, S and I were engaging in a philosophical discussion during a morning run. I'm uncertain just why it is that we tend to have such great conversations while we're out running. Optimistically I would speculate that it has to do with an increased vigour and a spiritual refreshing derived from the release of her standard 8-10 kilometer jaunt. Cynically, I would say that it's because our brains get bored for something to do, and due to the laboured breathing it's one of the few times either of us can get a word in edgewise.

Regardless, this discussion plumbed that common topic of human disdain for other living things, specifically the uncontrolled pet populations. In the semi-rural region that was the occasionally-charming backdrop of our run, we could see the spectrum between self-sufficient barn cats and the doomed-to-be-road-kill yard kittens that had no future. As usual, my cynical regard for my fellow humans evoked a sour feeling of contempt to taint my emotional palette. It made me feel small as S struggled with possible plans for shelters that might save innocents, as we ran by quaint old farm houses surrounded by broadly peaceful trees and even a darling bright orange and black fuzzy Monarch butterfly caterpillar marching resolutely across the quiet blacktop.

At the crescendo of the run, and the conversation, we came across something horrible.

From my first view, all I could see was some movement, and as I got closer I could see that the movement was coming feebly from a brown furry form strewn on the side of the road. My heart started sinking, as discovering road kill is bad enough, but it's terrible to see it suffering. It wasn't until I got within four meters that I saw what it really was.

Clearly dying, and with no hope of recovery, but still alive enough to have a fierce spark of dangerous defiance in its all-black eyes, was a mature beaver.

The pit of my stomach entered free fall as I realized that this was my nations symbol suffering and ebbing before me on this nameless back road in Oregon. It was a noble and industrious creature destroyed by some indifferent accident of a thoughtless world. It was me, obviously wasting away but refusing to accept it, even until the last. It was my kind, fading into oblivion because of the plague of petty human desire crushing all that stands in its way. It was all of nature, bleeding and suffering from the blow of entropy wielded clumsily by fools.

It was just some stupid rodent that got itself killed. I told myself that over and over, under breaths pulled through clenched teeth, as I wondered how S was keeping her composure. When we got back to the squashed form that was the remains of the caterpillar we had spied earlier and she snapped out a bitter profanity in her dismay, I knew she felt something akin to my own misery.

I know I can't save the world from humans. I also know it doesn't really need saving, because it's survived worse catastrophes than what we're likely to inflict. Still, every life-barren yard I see stares back at me with the baleful eyes of all those that had to be displaced for it.