The Gorilla That Lives In My House
For the first time in years, I must write, and for the first time ever, I must write for selfish reasons. My brain has come to resemble a child's messy room, full of old objects that are either out of place or no longer necessary. So I must separate the garbage, the dirty laundry, and the dirty dishes from my misplaced treasures, in order to clean them and give them the respect to which they are entitled.
This one begins some time in the past. I was part of a church activity almost a year ago that required me to interpret a chapter from the book of Proverbs. Most Proverbs are basically the same---"be smart, don't be dumb---" but one really stuck out to me: "A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." I suggested at the time that this be interpreted in light of its opposite verse: "but the kindest acts of the wicked are cruel." The contrast of care with cruelty seemed to suggest, to me, that the passage was about pet ownership, and being kind to one's animals. But when have the Proverbs ever discussed this before? I couldn't find an example, but did recall the many portions of the Bible that tell stories of people being cruel to animals, like the man beating a donkey in Numbers until it is given a voice of its own and cries out for mercy.
Like most things that I fail to fully understand, this proverb couldn't leave my thoughts, and the first half of the verse gradually isolated itself from its compliment until I was left only with "a righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." Being an owner of multiple pets, I came to derive a holy pleasure in cleaning my chinchilla cages, feeding them, caring for them. Giving them the benefit of human technology by providing shelter and exercise apparatus, using my reason to determine how to allocate food in moderation, and often acting contrary to their will but always in their best interests. It is delightful to me to see these ignorant, happy creatures living in peace and health in spite of themselves. How little it takes for me to know what is best for my animals, and how easy it is for me to place limitations on them, for the purpose of improving their well-being!
The expression of hatred borne by my dear rodents, which is truthfully due to the unwelcome burst of light that so often accompanies my entrance into their room, makes them appear resentful when they are satisfied. When, however, they need to be fed, or need more water, or are restless, they reach up against their cages eagerly in supplication. Yet I go on caring for them, and love them all the more for the absurdity of their ignorant reliance upon me. I have read that they are more affectionate to humans if you keep only one of them, because they become lonely. This idea saddens me, so I keep them together, and I tolerate their resentment. A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Owning other pets has given me less occasion to explore the meaning of this proverb, but it has still been present, and even more precious for its scarcity. My cat gives me the affection that I do not get from my chinchillas. She loves them too, and I only recently learned that she means them no harm and even loves to run around and play with them. She is more independent than they are, but probably knows better than they do how reliant she is upon me, which makes the proverb ring even truer to me.
When Patty and I were moving from our apartment into our house, we had the problem of having to transport the cat. We didn't have a kennel for her, so we decided I would try to carry her and comfort her along the way. It seems silly that she was so frightened of the car until you consider that, being a Humane Society cat, she must have been under the impression that a car ride means you are leaving your old life behind. We wrapped her in a blanket to protect me from her claws, and during the ride to our new home, she buried her face in my arm in a way that was frighteningly human. It was almost as though she were begging us to keep her. I felt like crying. And all I could think of was this: A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Now we also own a dog, which wasn't really my choice, but I still love her. Caring for her needs more often that not means the moderation of her desires---the desire to play, the desire to eat human food, and more recently the unwelcome desire to destroy things. In this way, our dog has given emphasis to the word "need" in my beloved proverb.
I care deeply for the needs of my animals. Does that make me a righteous man? As often as I've thought of this proverb, my great wealth of household pets has caused me more and more to notice one troubling aspect of the phrase itself. Let us look a bit closer:
A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
It is mysterious to me that the phrase implies not only that the man in question is an animal owner, but that it is one "animal." To say nothing of the historical context of the phrase, it seems likely that people have always been animal owners, not only in agricultural but also domestic settings. So why does it not say "animals" in the plural? Why singular? What is "my" animal?
I have made reference to this animal earlier, perhaps without thinking well enough about it. To my pets, it is the magical, light-bearing ape that provides solutions to their problems, an outlet for their desires, and comfort in times of trouble. It inhabits a home that lacks the cleanliness of a chinchilla cage, permits itself to be polluted by the treats it denies the dog, and lacks any such comfort as that which it provides for the cat. The heart that beats and the organs that function in spite of myself, inside of my body, and the base desires that arise, which I so often fail to keep in check. This organism that behaves so much in its own interest, and is so apparently independent of me but ignorantly reliant upon me. This organism that cries out in disgust when I feed it bitter medicine, or moans with fatigue when I force it to carry on working. What could more truly be considered “my animal?”
It is real to me, more real than ever before, this nameless beast that roams the hallway of my home. But it is mine.
This one begins some time in the past. I was part of a church activity almost a year ago that required me to interpret a chapter from the book of Proverbs. Most Proverbs are basically the same---"be smart, don't be dumb---" but one really stuck out to me: "A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." I suggested at the time that this be interpreted in light of its opposite verse: "but the kindest acts of the wicked are cruel." The contrast of care with cruelty seemed to suggest, to me, that the passage was about pet ownership, and being kind to one's animals. But when have the Proverbs ever discussed this before? I couldn't find an example, but did recall the many portions of the Bible that tell stories of people being cruel to animals, like the man beating a donkey in Numbers until it is given a voice of its own and cries out for mercy.
Like most things that I fail to fully understand, this proverb couldn't leave my thoughts, and the first half of the verse gradually isolated itself from its compliment until I was left only with "a righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." Being an owner of multiple pets, I came to derive a holy pleasure in cleaning my chinchilla cages, feeding them, caring for them. Giving them the benefit of human technology by providing shelter and exercise apparatus, using my reason to determine how to allocate food in moderation, and often acting contrary to their will but always in their best interests. It is delightful to me to see these ignorant, happy creatures living in peace and health in spite of themselves. How little it takes for me to know what is best for my animals, and how easy it is for me to place limitations on them, for the purpose of improving their well-being!
The expression of hatred borne by my dear rodents, which is truthfully due to the unwelcome burst of light that so often accompanies my entrance into their room, makes them appear resentful when they are satisfied. When, however, they need to be fed, or need more water, or are restless, they reach up against their cages eagerly in supplication. Yet I go on caring for them, and love them all the more for the absurdity of their ignorant reliance upon me. I have read that they are more affectionate to humans if you keep only one of them, because they become lonely. This idea saddens me, so I keep them together, and I tolerate their resentment. A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Owning other pets has given me less occasion to explore the meaning of this proverb, but it has still been present, and even more precious for its scarcity. My cat gives me the affection that I do not get from my chinchillas. She loves them too, and I only recently learned that she means them no harm and even loves to run around and play with them. She is more independent than they are, but probably knows better than they do how reliant she is upon me, which makes the proverb ring even truer to me.
When Patty and I were moving from our apartment into our house, we had the problem of having to transport the cat. We didn't have a kennel for her, so we decided I would try to carry her and comfort her along the way. It seems silly that she was so frightened of the car until you consider that, being a Humane Society cat, she must have been under the impression that a car ride means you are leaving your old life behind. We wrapped her in a blanket to protect me from her claws, and during the ride to our new home, she buried her face in my arm in a way that was frighteningly human. It was almost as though she were begging us to keep her. I felt like crying. And all I could think of was this: A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Now we also own a dog, which wasn't really my choice, but I still love her. Caring for her needs more often that not means the moderation of her desires---the desire to play, the desire to eat human food, and more recently the unwelcome desire to destroy things. In this way, our dog has given emphasis to the word "need" in my beloved proverb.
I care deeply for the needs of my animals. Does that make me a righteous man? As often as I've thought of this proverb, my great wealth of household pets has caused me more and more to notice one troubling aspect of the phrase itself. Let us look a bit closer:
A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
It is mysterious to me that the phrase implies not only that the man in question is an animal owner, but that it is one "animal." To say nothing of the historical context of the phrase, it seems likely that people have always been animal owners, not only in agricultural but also domestic settings. So why does it not say "animals" in the plural? Why singular? What is "my" animal?
I have made reference to this animal earlier, perhaps without thinking well enough about it. To my pets, it is the magical, light-bearing ape that provides solutions to their problems, an outlet for their desires, and comfort in times of trouble. It inhabits a home that lacks the cleanliness of a chinchilla cage, permits itself to be polluted by the treats it denies the dog, and lacks any such comfort as that which it provides for the cat. The heart that beats and the organs that function in spite of myself, inside of my body, and the base desires that arise, which I so often fail to keep in check. This organism that behaves so much in its own interest, and is so apparently independent of me but ignorantly reliant upon me. This organism that cries out in disgust when I feed it bitter medicine, or moans with fatigue when I force it to carry on working. What could more truly be considered “my animal?”
It is real to me, more real than ever before, this nameless beast that roams the hallway of my home. But it is mine.