“Mother, such a lot of foxes! Look at their beautiful tails! Have you ever seen so many foxes? This is going to be a wonderful meeting!”
Then we walked slowly along together, our bodies touching. The bittersweet feeling was all through me, knowing that he would be leaving me. But he made me put aside that feeling in the meadow, made me run with him, run with no thought or feeling, only our bodies gliding through the spring flowers.
“I can see the smoke from the dump, Mother! There are a whole lot of moose! Aren’t they grand-looking, Momma, so tall…”
There was an old orchard in the meadow. We lay down together beneath the apple trees. The blossoms were out, all white and smelling sweet. We lay in the sun. I can feel even now the weight of his body against mine. The swallows from the falling-down barn swooped in over us, teasing us, because they saw how satisfied we were. For a moment I felt I was light as a swallow, with a shining little breast. He was looking at me deeply, speaking with his eyes as only an old male can, communicating the vastness of his territory as well as the little things he enjoyed, like the sound of a mole tunneling quickly in springtime. I like that, he said. I like to hear the mole tunneling so fast in springtime. He tunnels faster then than at any other time. He sends the dirt flying, because he’s tunneling toward a female!
“Momma, when we get to the dump, can I roll in the tin cans?”
We left the meadow and went through the soft wet ground, where I showed him the pool of bubbling water. The fish in it were very small and darted away when they saw us. We drank there. The water was coming up through the soft mud, making gentle noises. I had a few sips; when I looked up he was gone. The old males move so quietly. They leave you so quietly when they go. Very high on the wind, the woodcock was swooping and diving. I sat for a long while, listening to the high-pitched sound of the wings, and staring into the bubbling water. I sat so still the little fish returned, not knowing I was there, and I didn’t bother them.
“Mother, there are the skunks! A long line of them! We won’t go near them, and get sprayed in the eye.”
But later I followed his trail, not with the hope of finding him because I knew he was gone. I found his claw marks high up on a tree and couldn’t reach them.
Tunneling my way out of this burrow, breaking through the last layers of dirt—sticking my nose into the air again, close by the rebel speechmakers. Big shots. With a lot of hifalutin ideas. But do they submit their views in triplicate? Do they have any important obscure papers published? There isn’t one of these rebels who troubles about footnotes, bibliography, index.
But just look there, on the Learned Professor’s desk. The nearly completed manuscript of his book on Queenie the chimp—wonderfully detailed—in which he proves conclusively that injury to the motor cortex paralyzes her arm. And more important, that when she wakes up and finds her arm won’t function, she is surprised.
This last point is particularly significant, and is presented most fully, with massive cross-references and annotation. As well it should be, for Queenie was so surprised when she woke up and found her arm was useless that she chewed off the ends of her fingers, and exposed all the muscles from her wrist to her forearm.
Son of a bald-headed old rattus norvegicus! The rebels are trying to free our test monkey from his restraint chair; they’re chewing right through his arm and ankle straps!
“Stop, you buggers!” See Buggery in Rhesus Monkeys, Harris and Logan, Nord College Series: “the weakest of the males, called Suzy, buggered by his companions”; see also my Newsletter for March.
They’ve freed him! Here he comes, filled with an especially important virus we’ve been developing for use against the Communist Menace. His eyes are glazed and he’s muttering deliriously to the assembled rats. His head is glowing brightly. A wide circle of light surrounds it like a rainbow and in it, down every stream of color, we can see a rebel broadcast. Along the rainbow round his head countless rebel signals are flashing—antelopes running, gorillas swinging through the jungle, hippos rising from their swamps! They’re all going, every animal in the world is headed for the rebel meeting!
In keeping with the Kirby-Hunt Emotional Response Factor, I have shit myself over this monkey business. As you know, our federally endowed young scientists spend much of their time counting rat turds, as defecation is a sure sign of the degree of emotional response in a stress situation. Well, Professor Kirby himself, the great Professor Kirby, will have to be called in with all his expertise in order to count the large number of fecal boluses I’ve left behind me in this lab, in my attempts to restore order.
Slowly, I make my way across the great plain. I must be careful that an elephant doesn’t step on me and split open my shell. I’ve never seen so many elephants; I’ve been shuffling along for hours and still I haven’t reached the end of them. Of course, a tortoise is slow, but even so—such a long, long line of giants.
I walk along, investigating it all, looking into every family group, paying my respects. Such a wonderful meeting. Perhaps I will finally solve the riddle of my shell, whose important markings are nearly impossible for me to see. My fate is written there, most assuredly, but it’s always one’s own fate that is hardest to see. I’ve only just managed to see the edge of it, reflected in the water of a jungle pool. Yet at times I seem to feel the whole of the design burning right through my shell and imprinting itself on my naked skin.
This much I know: the center of the design is my heart. The tiny fragment of the design I saw in the jungle pool was like the figure of a bird, soaring far beyond the clouds, far beyond the earth. And here am I, dragging my shell, my riddle, over the earth. Will I fly like the bird?
It doesn’t seem likely. But who knows? This great gathering is unlike anything I’ve ever dreamed of. Yet it too is written somewhere on my shell.
Claude Bernard, give me your blessing! Give poor old Doctor Rat the strength to carry on. The waves lap at the edge of the long laboratory sink, and the surface is sparkling with moonlight from the south windows. Down, Rat, take cover!
A rebel patrol sponge, coming along the water, three rebel sailors paddling with tongue sticks. They’re laughing and joking, not paying any attention to the shoreline. Quickly I scurry along to the edge of the drainboard and on past it.
Now through this alleyway of storage cans. This is a barren part of the colony, the streets empty. Only the lapping of the water and the sailors’ distant laughter…
Some of the cans have been tipped over by the rebels, their contents spilled on the street. Stale biscuit, table scraps—just tossed in the gutter. A very undesirable part of town. I must submit a report to the janitorial staff.
What’s that I hear?
Music! Tinny and cheap. I had no idea our Learned Professor had such honky music in his record library. Undoubtedly it’s for a learned purpose. But I’d better investigate. It seems to be coming from that large darkened cage over there.
Sawdust in the doorway, a few broken stairs; I climb them cautiously and peek in.
“Good evening.”
“Ah, yes…yes, indeed. Good evening.” Good heavens, this rat just beyond the doorway is wearing the pink identity tag (Homosexuality in Rats, Rutledge and Hall; see also Socially Outcast All-Male Groups, Randall and Bailey).
I edge very discreetly forward, not wishing to appear nosy. The music is louder now, the floor is covered with empty peanut shells. Around this corner…
Oh my goodness!
Pink identity rats everywhere, talking at the water tap, lounging around the earthen feeder. Some have shaved heads, there’s one with an eye patch, another one wearing a black mouse-skin jacket.
And male rats—dancing with each other, cheek to cheek, whisker to whisker!
“Mad about the boy
I’m simply mad about the boy…”
The good Doctor has fallen into a den of…of…there’s a very handsome male approaching me. I look away, pretend I can’t see him, but my heart is pounding violently.
“Are you alone?”
“Why—ah, yes, I am.”
“Permit me to offer you a drink.”
That’s the Learned Professor’s own supply of medicinal whiskey they’ve broken into! “I’m afraid I—”
“Take it. These are difficult times.”
“Well—”
“A meaningful relationship is so hard to find.”
“I—”
“We’ve got to take love where we find it.” He eyes me piercingly. His physique is superb, he must be on a high-protein diet. And the dancers swing by, gyrating their hips. Oh no! Here come two soldier rats through the doorway. I’ve got to hide.
“Relax. No one will harm you here.”
The soldier rats don’t even so much as glance at me. They go straight to the dance floor and start to boogey, their thimble helmets cocked at a rakish angle over their eyes.
“I can give you a profound relationship. I see you’re the sensitive type.”
“Sensory stimuli, bell-ringing, air blast, Morgan and Bennings.”
“You’ve been through a lot. You’re high-strung.”
“Neurotic patterns, compressed air attacks, see my notes.” He’s backing me into a corner. I feel weak in the knees.
“Just come up here on the steps with me and we’ll have a sincere discussion.”
I try to back pedal, to stall. “Surely you know St. Paul was against homosexuality. It’s not Christian.”
His tail touches mine.
“I can show you biblical proof!”
“Don’t be alarmed. I’m a Christian minister.”
“You are?”
“I am.” He pushes me onto the stairs. Other paws grab me from behind.
“What sort of debate is this anyhow! I can quote you from my paper—”
“My friends and I have a private room upstairs. Come on…”
His friends are—two sailors! Covered with tattoos. I’m swept up the stairs with them.
A candle and some bits of straw in their room. The candle flame flickers, casting strange shadows on the wall, where modernistic tail paintings are hung. I’ve got to get away—but something inside me—wants to stay. Faintly through the floorboards comes the music, haunting and yet exhilarating too:
“…simply mad about the boy…”
The two sailors are dancing, pressed tightly against each other. My host approaches me, takes me in his arms. We dance.
“I’ve never—”
“There’s always a first time,” he says softly, whispering in my ear.
“But there’s a war on!”
“It brought us together. Don’t fight it.” His paws are strong upon me, his eyes coolly superior. I suppose I could spend a little more time with him in order to make important field observations on Homosexuality in Rats—My Intimate Experiences. I could publish it with the U.S. Department of Health and Welfare, under the general heading of Population Control.
“Over here,” he says, spinning me suddenly and powerfully into a corner, where a few pieces of rag serve as his bedding.
“This doesn’t appear scientifically sterilized. I—”
“Just move your tail aside a little. There, that’s better.”
“Any number of social diseases—oh my god!”
“Relax…”
“I’M BEING BUGGERED! (See Buggery in Male Rats—Doctor Rat, Work-in-Progress).”
“…a deep…relationship…”
This is absolutely terrible, the good Doctor Rat being anally plugged in a filthy attic. But it also contributes meaningfully to a stable population figure. And the music comes to me faintly, with the sound of men’s voices, their laughter and song.
“You’re a good lay.”
“I’m only doing this for sociological insight.”
“Don’t—move… Oh! Oh!”
“…as a service to Public Health Investigation…”
“Oh yes!”
“…with special emphasis on population ecology…”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes…”
“…copulation attempted seventy times in fourteen minutes. Your investigator is indebted to the various government agencies which supported him in this study…”
“…yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes and again yes.”
“…of the anal copulation plug. Thanks must also go to the Dean of Science, without whom I would not have had the courage to proceed with this investigation. While it is only a preliminary probe into the problem…”
“Come along, Honey Badger, I’ll show you the way.”
“Yes, little bird, I’m coming. Are we going to a big hive?”
“The very biggest!”
What a good bird he is. There aren’t many like him in the jungle, willing to lead a badger to the thing he loves most—the juicy sweet insides of a hive.
“But, Honey Badger, if we see an elephant today, you’re not to tease it, or bite its trunk.”
“Sometimes I can’t help myself. I see an elephant and I have to bite him.”
“Please, Honey, we know how brave you are. We know that you fear nothing, not even an elephant, but promise me that today…”
“I’ll try my best. But what if I see a large antelope with very big horns walking around so proudly? Can I teach him a lesson?”
“Oh, Honey Badger…”
“It’s my nature, little bird. I take pleasure in instructing the great proud animals in humility. My father was the same way, and my grandfather and all the badgers. If I see an elephant giving himself proud airs, I just have to bite him on the trunk.”
“Maybe you could be a little more tolerant today.”
“What’s that loud rumbling I hear up ahead? The ground is trembling underneath my feet!”
“Come on, Honey Badger, let’s see! Run quickly!”
I’m running through the thicket, through the bamboo… The sound is tremendous…what can it be…
“There, Honey Badger, look at the swarming!”
The bamboo parts and I run through.
“Do you see, Honey Badger, do you see!”
“Yes, I see!”
“Now please don’t bite anyone.”
What a gathering this is! Never have I seen the great plain filled with so many different animals. All the families are here. There, the trees are black with apes and monkeys. And there, pacing back and forth, are the lions, right in amongst the antelope! “How strange this is, little bird.”
“Yes, Honey Badger. All the hearts have been smoothed. There are no upraised tails, no frightened twitching.”
“Look! There’s a marvelous antelope leader, with huge spiraling horns!”
“Now, Honey Badger…”
“I won’t bite him. No, it isn’t necessary. Look how quietly he stands. His eyes aren’t proud. They’re filled with wonder.”
“Come this way, Honey Badger, and we’ll visit the white rhinoceros!”
“No, I’m going to pay a call on the elephants.”
“You can see elephants anytime, Honey Badger. It’d be far better if we went and saw something rare. Look, there are the mountain gorillas come all the way down to the great plain. Come on, Honey Badger, let’s see them. You don’t want to waste your time with the elephants.”
“I think I’d better visit them nonetheless. They might be wondering where I am.”
“No, they aren’t wondering, Honey Badger. Come on, come with me this way…”
He’s a nice little bird and very helpful, but he doesn’t understand the service I render the elephants. In a gathering as large as this, there are bound to be some pompous bull elders. A good swift nip on the tender part of the trunk delivered by a runt like me will give them something to think about. Well, here we are now, right on the edge of the herd. And the big fellows draw their feet back in a hurry as I pass. No problem there…and everything looks in order here, the bulls all standing quiet. A very unusual atmosphere prevails over this herd, quite unlike the thin
g I generally find among the giants. Yes, they’re all—smoothed out. No temper tantrums, no fancy speeches. Elephants can be an awful bore if they get to philosophizing. When they start blabbering about the unreachable fruit and the deep immutable roaring of creation, I give them a fast bite on the tail and disappear before they know what hit them.
But there’s no sermonizing today. The elephants are all keeping their thought streams empty and peaceful. I don’t see a single preacher in the bunch. How strange! Who are these two coming along toward the herd…just an old bull with river weed stuck on his ears…his companion is crippled…not a word out of either of them.
Well, I must say this is an unusual day: No work for the Honey Badger.
The Rebel Militia thunders past me, continuing to open cages and free the inmates. There go the rabbits who were to be boiled alive tomorrow. This will set the government heatstroke study back terribly. We’ve got to continue verifying facts that were established a hundred years ago. Such verification is essential to national defense. There’s a long and glorious history of scalded, burned, and boiled rabbits to live up to. New methods of scalding, burning, and boiling must be found. How else can we indicate progress to the Congress?
This revolution is a golden opportunity for me to prepare a little paper on the mechanism of mass assembly. The president of the university has already expressed concern about the assembling of militant student groups in the cafeteria. He’d certainly welcome an obscure field observation on the subject, with recommendations for throwing the militants in the Final Solution.
We could cut away all the soft tissue first, of course, to make soaking more rapid. A few skeletons erected at the door to the cafeteria might make a lot of difference in Student Attitudes. (I’ve got some quick-drying adhesive and wire to string the bones together.)