Regardless of my experiences with the quadrupeds (both wet and dry) referred to in my previous post, rest assured that I am really and truly a friend to animals, regardless of the extraordinary ways in which many of them have impacted my life. They’ve always fascinated me, beginning with the fabulous caged beasts I gazed upon at various zoos in New York City as a boy. Usually I was dressed in the distinctive blue-and-gold Cub Scout uniform, instantly marking me as a target of derision by your nastier, non-Scouting teenagers, but nevertheless I forged on, game as always.
(Query: why is it that caged beasts always seem to indulge in the most vivid of erotic encounters whenever a prepubescent audience lurks beyond the bars? Answer comes there none.)
My other experiences with animals took place on television, safely seated atop a Herculon-covered couch next to Mom as we egged one another on through countless episodes of Wild Kingdom. Who was that old guy? Oh, Marlin Perkins. Each week he, via the benevolence of the Mutual of Omaha insurance conglomerate, guided us through close-up vignettes of wasps paralyzing weaker insects (think Hugh Auchincloss doing a number of Mickey Spillane); lions surrounding graceful gazelles and turning them into mincemeat; hundreds of millions of lemmings jumping off the White Cliffs of Dover; and ants observed deep within their burrows as they printed their own currency, played bridge, and enslaved aphids. Fascinating! And then you turned off the television and went to bed, knowing that you’d fall asleep without scratching.
I haven’t had much to do with animals since, other than finding myself surrounded by a herd of chickens in Key West seconds after stepping off a city bus, laden with luggage. I stood stock still, afraid to move lest I excite their avian anger. (Come on– we’ve all heard stories about farmers found pecked to death by the very creatures they worked hard to keep in feed. (Imagine showing something off at a 4-H Fair, winning a ribbon, bringing it home, and being killed by it?) Other than that, animals have usually been encountered in my grocer’s freezer.
Today in Winter Garden, however, I made up for my years of animal ignorance, all within the space of five minutes.
Down from my office at the Winter Garden Heritage Foundation History Research Center, where I happily spend my days looking up “Judge” James Gamble Speer’s third cousin twice removed, is a feed store called Winter Garden Feed and Seed. It’s located in a building that’s been there for many years, and we have a lot of clippings on file regarding its history. I like to shop locally wherever I find myself working, and it means a lot to me to patronize a business whose previous antecedents have stretched back many decades. Winter Garden Feed and Seed sells things for horses and cows and chickens, and I’ve gotten Blueie’s bird food there once before; Karen Grimes and staff are friendly and down to earth, and very helpful. Blueie is finicky about what he eats, flapping and screaming and rubbing his beak dramatically on his perch after he’s tasted something he decides he’ll never try again, but he’s decided that he likes the bird seed at Winter Garden Feed and Seed. And, since he’s trained me so well, there I take myself.
There was a line today Yes– people were busily making purchases for various animals, speaking a language I’d never heard before; not having spent much time near farms, or even spacious backyards, I had no idea what the customers were talking about. All I knew as that I wanted a bag of bird food, no complications, and so I wandered over to the area where you could dispense seed into plastic bags; they would weigh it at the register, charge you accordingly, and then send you back to Tara. Simple, right?
Only I couldn’t find the plastic bags, though I knew they had to be nearby. I turned to search a close-at-hand shelf, and found myself confronted in the shins by something large and kind of soft. I looked down and a very large pig was looking up at me as if to say “what the heck? Excuse me?!” As I considered this, I stepped back to give him room in case he decided to scamper away, squealing, like in the cartoons, and I stepped on something that sort of squeaked in a snarling sort of way. I looked behind me and saw a rabbit running off in the direction of a tub full of shavings.
Pigs. Rabbits. While the woman at the counter instructed the pig to not eat her shoe, I took advantage of the lull in commerce to ask where the plastic bags were. Finding them, I filled one with what I’d hoped would be a financially beneficial amount of bird seed (I like to shop locally) and went up to the counter. I pulled out a credit card, checking above me for swooping albatross, and saw the woman at the counter removing a chicken from atop the credit card machine. And this wasn’t just a chicken– it was a glorious chicken made, it seemed, from a white feather boa. “She’s up there because the rabbit keeps nipping at her,” I was told, and it all made sense because I was in a place that sold animal feed and farm equipment. When in Rome…
Always be open to new experiences. A pig could eat your shoe, a rabbit could bite your ankle, and a chicken could compromise your credit card.
And this is why I love working where I do.