Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Animals and machines

I do not hunt. I do not, even, enjoy fishing. In fact, if I were to rely upon fishing for a source of food, I would probably starve to death. Wild animals seem to avoid me. Domesticated animals, seem to love me for some reason. I cannot explain why, they just do.

Angry, nasty dogs will eat food out of my hands, or lick me affectionately. Perhaps they understand that I have no fear for their antics. Perhaps I emit a pheromone that only they can detect.

Cats, for some reason, adore me. Cats will go out of their way to greet me, to be near me, to share their kills with me, as if I should be a proud parent. I am not. I do not understand why I should delight in a still warm creature laying dead or dying by someone else's hands at my bed, door, or wherever. The blood, entrails, feathers and the like I find messy. Disgusting.

I hate Biology. I always have. I have always held a firm belief that the stuff that happens inside of a body ought to remain there. I hate needles. I nearly faint at the sight of my own blood. I could not even tell you my blood type. Even as I type this I feel a little light headed.

To me the body is like a car, or a machine. It performs a purpose. It is clean and clinical, and when it can no longer serve that purpose it is discarded like a husk, a shell, and another replaces it. Or not. It depends on the requirements of the job, I suppose. Perhaps I need to think about this more.

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