365 Ways With Words

The Shadow

There was a definite shadow. No mistake. Quite large, really. He stared in disbelief, but there it was. And although the pleasant young doctor was talking in mindful and calming words about just how much medicine had advanced over the past few years, he could not quite listen. A habit of politeness made him nod and say “uh-huh” every now and again, but if he had been quizzed about any of it he would not have been able to repeat a single word.

The bus journey home was equally vapid  – he would have stayed on for the entire journey had another passenger not brushed past him when exiting at the bus stop after his own. He trudged back, completely unaware of the passing half kilometre distance. It was only at his door that he had to snap out of his reverie – he couldn’t find his key. Actually, that was not strictly true; he just could not remember which pocket he had put it in.

The phone rang. It was his brother checking about the next weekend’s upcoming party. Amidst the usual chitchat about work at the office, the nieces and nephews, the car in repair, their mum’s house repairs and plans for a summer holiday, there arose a distinct and almost violent necessity to vomit. So with a, “Gotta go. Sorry” he rushed to the kitchen sink and filled it with the retched contents of his stomach, which didn’t amount to much because of the hours that had elapsed between his breakfast tea and now. Sweating with effort, he grabbed the kitchen stool and sat himself down, hands over either side of the sink, and hung his head down until it touched his knees.

So this was it. The end. The Shadow of Death was approaching and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned over the sink again for two more fruitless heaves, then resumed the position. This was not how he wanted it to end.

Throughout his life he had occasionally considered death, as do all living and thinking things. Was it final, or would there be some sort of heaven? Would the method of his departure involve memorable heroics and posthumous glory, or some miserable descent into a world of pain and ultimate oblivion? Well, at least the latter of those scenarios was now abundantly clear. He would certainly die in a cloud of opiate-mitigated agony. It would be a final moment of the deepest and darkest profound inconsequence. And prematurely, as far as he was concerned, for he still had so very much to do – what a soul-crushing pity…

His mind brought up his parents’ deaths, in hospital beds surrounded by the nearest and dearest, although with his father there had been fewer present partly because of the timing of his departure – 5:16 am. Well, he cheerlessly reasoned, at least that wouldn’t happen to him because of his single status and having no darling progeny to hold the expected bedside vigil. No, his last moments would most likely be seen out alone.

He went to bed, full to overflowing with self-pity and pain. Within the forgiving embrace of familiar mattress and duvet, the remnant of his time on planet earth appeared to be evaporating – as so much empty breath. Like the kettle that was whistling downstairs. That was strange: he did not recall putting it on. Yes, there was the high-pitched steamy whistle. And it descended quickly, as if the gas was turned off.

He went down the stairs with as much stealth as he could and hesitantly peered around the corner. Beside the kitchen window, putting the kettle back onto the stove top, was the shadow of a man. Only it suddenly occurred to him that this man was dressed exactly like him – down to the socks! He abruptly stopped stirring his mug of tea, teaspoon in hand, and turned around: he not only dressed like him, but also looked exactly like him; a mirror image – a doppelganger!

“Who the hell are you?” he called out, still peering around the door frame.

“Oh, hi! There you are.” came the response in the same voice as his own, only calmer.

“What do you mean by, Oh, hi? I asked you who you are. And what are you doing in my house?”

“Hey, just chill out, will you?” said the doppelganger, who returned to stirring his tea, then tapped the rim before placing the spoon onto the draining board, just as was his custom. “And it’s more who the hell were you, not are you, by the way. 'Cos I’m you! Or was. It's a little confusing.”

“I’m calling the police!” he shouted, turning to find the remote charging in the hallway.

“Sorry, mate, but you haven’t got time. Not if you want to find out who I am.”

He stopped and returned a glance at his twin standing in the kitchen doorway taking his first sip. He smiled, “Ooh, lovely! You were right.”

“What?” He stood hands on hips. What on God’s good earth was happening to him? This was truly the day from Hell. First the diagnosis with six-months to one-year at best, if the doctor’s words could be remembered at all, and then this… interloper!

“You, that is I said, and correct me if I’m wrong, that shagging Phyllis Cornwallis was a waste of time and that you’d have rather had a nice cup of tea.”

Stupefied, he could only respond with the same, “What?”

“Well, here I am. I’m having that cup of tea!” He took another slurp. “And, despite the rather dubious reasons for saying it in the first place, I think you might be right. This really is a nice cup of tea.”

“And how do you know about Phyllis Cornwallis?”

“I’m you, remember?”

He stood confused and not a little angry. There was this stranger taking tea and passing the time of day about a bad date with an old girlfriend – how did he know about that?

The strange him smiled his rather patronising grin, the sort he used when disclosing vital information that only he knew, yet was vital for the other person to hear. He saw it and found it excruciating – as excruciating as everyone else who’d had to suffer it over the years. “Look, it’s quite straightforward really. The following day you, that is I, said to Eric that you’d –I’d– rather have had a nice cup of tea than shag Phyllis: that it had been a complete waste of time. So, you’ve, I mean I’ve, now got the opportunity. Cheers!”

So saying, he tilted his mug, his favourite mug, in his direction and took a slurp.

“Mmm… smashing! Can’t quite beat a nice cup of tea. I wonder whatever happened to Phyllis.”

“Phyllis? I don’t know. Wait…” He sat down at the bottom of the stairs. “You mean, you are me?”

“Got it!” He gave that same self-satisfied smirk. “And I must say, really, I’m so sorry about the news – you know, about this morning. Must be a bummer. But without it, I’m not here and your wasted time was… well, wasted!”

At that, he stood up smart. Frowning, he was going to demand answers, but was pre-empted.

“Calm down. It’s quite simple. You see, for every moment you/I said it was wasted, the time has been given again. Or rather, whatever you said you’d prefer to do has been enabled. Don’t ask me how; it just is – that’s all I know. And from memory, there are quite a lot of regrets that will be putting in an appearance. I’ll certainly be popping by from time to time: you wasted a lot of time by saying the ‘Rather have a cup of tea’ one regularly.”

“I did?”

“And remember that dalliance in New York with what’s-her-name?”

“Carmel?”

“Yes, that was it – and she left on the first night? Well, that regret is being chased up quite soon. I think ‘I’d have rather had a rusty harpoon inserted up my anus!’ was perhaps over-exaggerating the whole impact thing of that admittedly disastrous weekend, don’t you think? I mean; you hardly knew the girl.”

He stared blankly back at his cocky mirror image. “So, you mean I can have those times, those regrets again?”

He took a good gulp and stood there nursing the remnants of the tea.

“Well, yes. Kind-of. Only, of course, it won’t exactly be you enjoying all those wasted moments – I suppose that would be unfair. So, from time to time a You, or more exactly an I, will appear and all those things you regretted will be accounted for. You do understand this, don’t you – you are, after all, a chartered accountant.”

And with that, the mug was drained, taken to the sink, rinsed under the hot tap and placed on the draining board next to the spoon.

“Cheerio, then.” He impishly smiled. Vanishing, like mist on the wind, he just had enough time to say, “Thanks for the tea. Oh, and by the way, after the news this morning, any more regrets are invalidated. So you can’t just go around regretting your whole life or some such.”

Killing Dogs

Three times he knocked. Three times there was no reply. He knew they were in, but they just weren’t answering – at least, not to him.

Single, alone, powerfully built, he had founded his reputation on sending clear messages and not expecting any difficulties in return. Of course, difficulties did arise, but his ‘steely determination’ – yes, he liked that – his steely determination won through. No one was going to back out of his boss's deals. They were as good as imprisoned.

He found himself around the back. He had the feeling they were watching his movements from behind their nets. The Alsatian furiously barked from behind the wire fence, alerted to another intruder like the postman. With steadied zeal, he removed a very long knife from the specially made pocket on the inside of his coat. As he approached the fence, the dog lunged to make contact. Only, he made first contact – swiftly through the throat. The remaining minute of the dog’s life was spent under the blowy evening breeze in a gibbering, coughing, gurgling red mess. Then there was silence, of a very definite kind.

Message delivered, he returned the cleaned blade to its home, turned and walked calmly to the car. He sat as an imperturbable henchman and lit the first of three cigarettes, smoking each for the maximum time whilst keeping his eyes fixed as a guard on the house. This was his very own particular message – I do my job and am not bothered by your discomfort.

The next day a small envelope was delivered at the office with all the expected money. There was no note, but it was obvious where it had come from. The boss smiled that smile of acquisition, like a child receiving presents at a birthday party: he didn't ask how he'd done it, but simply took half the wad of notes and handed the rest over in the envelope.

“For you. For services rendered. Stick with me.”

“Thank you, boss. It was nothing.”

Except it was. He didn’t quite know why he had knifed the dog. He had gone around the back to try the rear door, gain entry through a window, shake 'em up and see what could be taken to make up the amount. When the dog barked, it just riled him somehow, so it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. And the job got done, didn’t it?

He actually liked dogs; in time he wanted to get one: something powerful, like himself, that would test his mettle. Something impressive, so that when he and his big strong dog would pass by respect would be instantly commanded.

When he was 14, he’d seen his father beat the family dog to death. It had had it coming, or so his dad later explained. Each morning the dog would jump, he’d have to hit it, each evening on the leash the dog would crap on the path, and he’d have to hit it again. After the Christmas dinner, a few whiskies too many, the squealing dog had received a good kicking around the flat and then had its head crushed by one almighty swipe of the frying pan. He remembered the look on his father's face as he put a great canine skull-shaped dent in the pan, so it had to be thrown away; he’d actually enjoyed it.

He didn’t think he’d have to do anything like that with his dog of the future. He wasn’t an alcoholic, like his father, but he’d just proven that he had it in him to despatch a family pet as necessary and without emotion. So, any bad business could be dealt with responsibly. Just like his job.

A man to his word, he visited his mother’s grave that afternoon. It had been his sixth visit since her untimely, if slightly undignified demise, at bingo. Laying a red rose on the top of the stone, he paused before crossing himself. He didn’t know why he did that each time; he wasn’t a catholic, but it seemed appropriate, like characters in the movies.

It was customary to say a few words, so he delivered a confessional to bring her up to speed on the elements of his existence: Jude had gone, he was alone, working for Uncle David had turned out to be better than expected, he’d decorated the house, got a season ticket to Spurs, and… And what? It felt like he was expected to round it off with something more emphatic. But now it all seemed so mundane – so empty.

He didn’t finish. In fact, he got straight up and walked promptly to the car and drove home. Once back, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing there either. Where was he going? Swiping up his keys, he jumped back into the beamer and drove to the pet shop. He was a little taken aback to be told that pet shops don’t sell puppies anymore and that he’d have to get one from a breeder or from the shelter.

The shelter was in the next street, so he walked in the direction of the annoying barking. Having smiled through the interview, he politely answered the questionnaire as best he could with his tattooed fingers delicately gripping the biro. So yes, he lived in a flat, he kept non-regular hours but the dog would be regularly walked, the inspection would take place next week, etc, etc.

It had been obvious from the start that he would look for an Alsatian. What had not been obvious to him was quite how much Trudy needed him. He had not understood, nor been prepared for, the emotional commitment, the separation anxiety, the fear of the unknown stranger who had commanded her into his presence, the new rules on walking, sitting, staying, lying, eating…

And yet, she began to yield, as did he. Without thinking, he began to bring her with him in the car – at first to add weight to his presence, just as he’d planned, but after a while to be his companion. As weeks turned into months, Trudy invested her entire trust onto him; he felt the love return from her soft brown eyes. And although he'd easily freed her, she had with difficulty freed him. She was his salvation. He began to believe – in himself as a human again.

It was a hot August Wednesday, the early meeting had been postponed until midday. The clients, Middle Eastern types, had not wanted the dog present, so he had been told to put her in the beamer. But as the arguments began and the negotiations protracted, their attention over-focused, the heat of the day took its toll. By three it was all over, hands eventually shaken and the new deal through Cypress looked promising. As he saw them out on behalf of his boss, so he remembered – she was still in the car.

Only she wasn’t. Her lifeless, breathless body draped over the passenger seat: her seat. She had probably succumbed only an hour into the afternoon. It does not take long until heat exhaustion becomes lethal.

He was dead. That he had killed Trudy – his friend, his belief, his charge – was not the worst of it. That he had betrayed her trust, the trust of a rescued prisoner, is what killed him. He drove, crying with her limp head in his lap, to the shelter. There he explained the situation, as he handed her beautiful body over, back to her origins. Leaving her there, along with all the money in his pocket, he fled to the carpark to be alone, to recover, to go back to work and became himself a prisoner again.

The Strength of Reason

Too often he awoke to misery. Alone. Tired. Depressed. Pained.

If there was one thing to learn from late-night drinking, it was that life the next day always got worse. And here was living proof. Not only was his mind in a mess, his body was too. He knew it: a run was beckoning, with its rosy glow, clearer head, the very physicality of life. Turning over, he weighed.

*

She held his hand with a firmness that betrayed her emotions. She needed him. Like the air, the sunshine, the blood in her veins. Without him she would be lost, like the walking dead. She enjoyed all of these metaphors – all the like a and like the's. If a cloud raced across the sun, it would be a momentary occlusion of his radiance. If the bus was late, she was waiting for his words.

But inside was a voice. It was her very self-worth. It was trapped under a mountain of heart – her fatty deposits of cloying devotion that threatened to overwhelm her entire system. She ignored the little words, the denial being part of a deeper love on the long-term path. But her arm involuntarily flexed, making her hand flinch.

*

 

On a motorway overpass she stood for the briefest of seconds, then jumped. It was a peculiar sensation, this free-falling: wind, weightlessness under her feet, exhilaration – a novelty.

 

How many times she had gone through the motions she could not imagine. She would leave the house, still not sure about a note, and walk the three hundred yards up the slipway towards the M6 proper, turn right and walk the same distance back to be above the roundabout. Then, clambering over the crash barrier and railing, would leap to her death. And if anyone found her she would be able to call out his name: "Jack! Jack! Oh, I'm sorry, Jack!" Except of course, by then, in her crushed body, blood oozing from her mouth and nose, arms and legs and back broken, it would be too late.

 

*

 

It was only another two hundred metres, perhaps less. The sun was about to touch the horizon and beneath them they could see the shadow of the mountains on the other side of the col rise up the snow fields towards them as an incessant demonic presence – inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot.

 

If they had stopped and turned down a mere hour previously, they could have made for the tents on the ridge by darkness. An early start could have meant sunrise at the peak, or at least near their present location. But no, they had all agreed to press on regardless, determined to reach their goal early. And now, with perhaps another fifty or sixty steps ahead of them, the oncoming cloud of chilled sunlessness consumed them. Conversation desiccated, and taking immense laboured breaths, they switched on their helmet lights one-by-one, but the sapping effects of fatigue and oxygen privation added to their disorientation. Unwittingly, they had all ground to a halt, the frozen air scouring their lungs to remove even more heat. Above them the peak's golden wick of heavenly light finally snuffed, with a wind-whipped flurry. In the wide-open indigo above, wicked white starlight pierced them with pinioned night lances – anchored, they could not progress, nor return.

 

*

 

If he liked to get away with it, he also liked to tell. The final accounts filed, he had been careful to lay no trail, to put each step within different press releases so that only those with access to his very soul would be able to trace his direction. Information asymmetry, they called it, but only if it was exposed. Careful attention to the logistical psychology of an investigative mind, the sort he had witnessed when under investigation as a younger partner a full ten years before, meant that he was now as fore-armed as any general or commander in the field. He knew what to move where, and the effects each would have on the company's positive image, its various share prices in the forthcoming weeks, and then, when he had skilfully withdrawn all indicators towards him, the right time to resign and sell.

 

The final devilish act of the final devilish plan was to set the dates on the future meetings. Suspicions would be magnificently diverted. Picking up his jacket from his leather chair, he'd be out and be home before his beloved cleaning lady had finished emptying the bins. Ah, dear Sharon; she'd be able to find another job. Surely.

 

*

 

They'd walk him towards the pier. It was his expressed wish to see the town again from the end. The cliffs, ruddy and rude, had always seemed fragile – as if one night a winter's wave would remove it and leave a gaping hole in the landscape. Then the caravan sites and little boxy bungalows led down towards the town proper, the big fat hotels along the prom. On the other side the coast stretched away in a languishing flatness and fields ready for development. His town.

 

And here he was: dying. His achievements? A lovely suburban house, forty-five years at the bank, a will that accounted for everyone, a loving family, memories of happiness and holidays. Surely he should die happy. The doubt, his one and only, was the meaning of it all; for it had none.

 

*

 

Down, the foot went through the skull of his opponent. Not a pretty sight. But it could not be helped. He was to go, and go he went.

 

His twenty-third cigarette, he realised he had to come to final terms with this thing. For if his life was to provide any comfort then it must not be entered into lightly. It would kill him. It was killing him. And that was it! The last cigarette, the last one ever, the last. He exhaled and stubbed, coughed and spat. Holding up the pack containing the remainders, he crushed it. Into the gutter it went, and he felt... strangely exhilarated. Yes! Putting his rough hands in his jacket pocket, his fingertips fell onto the cheap plastic lighter. He pulled it out: this cheap, plastic lighter, half-empty, holding only one function. It should also go, but after one second's stare he replaced it. For next time.

Speedwell

                                    Arms fall,

                                    Hoped questing slow drowns out

                                    Before destination, before the band plays.

                                    Speedwell thrives by the walking feet.

                                    Soul up; stellar birth,

                                    Down; impaled shrike catch

 

                                    From fields of expressive inspiration

                                    Comes music and toned harmony

                                    The gilded harness embraces;

                                    Fills, sails, caresses, champions.

                                    And the sweet contented bees make a robust honey

                                    From the gentlest of streams, clear and pure

 

                                    A summer's chill descent

                                    Within the cave of unknowing comes:

                                    Devout ropes fray, faithless of knot and mind,

                                    Until the bitter end is reached

                                    –a final empty bite into a dark proof–

                                    Free-fall through sunless air...

 

                                    There is no single root for all,

                                    A tap to meet, confirmed in time, made,

                                    The rains come and they go:

                                    So like day-long flowers of speedwell

                                    We must all be ready to yield

                                    And to flourish

Forbidden Fruit

With a sweet caress her hair brushed against his unshaven face. The skin of her arms and her eager fingers had a porcelain quality, like milk, ivory and snow...

Rain swept in and battered the double-glazing hidden behind the curtains. It was time to get up. Habitually, and regardless of the weather, he slipped on slippers and dressing gown. Before opening the drapes, he peeked out into the dreariness of a late October garden at dawn. It felt as if the whole world was going to suck the life and colour from him, if not today, then one day soon – a day just like this one.

Kisses done, his breakfast of toast and marmalade sat solidly in his stomach, but the two cups of tea sloshed rhythmically with his gait as he marched to the station, on time as usual. Tardiness appalled him, his own especially. Turning the corner on Station Approach he saw the familiar yellow streak of the train’s roof paint – for some reason the 7:34 was early, either that or his watch was slow, and that just could not be. The guard, seeing his extra spurt through the car park –his umbrella waving with a clown’s comedic bounce– held the electronic door for much longer than was expected, and received a smile-less nod for his pains. His hefty sprint caught him out of breath.

Bad form, really bad form, he repeated to himself in dizzy recovery, panting beside the locked toilet door. At one point he wiped his forehead with his hand and, steadying himself on a bend, left a streaming sweated residue on an advertisement for Eurorail. Little drips cascaded down the model’s fixed smile, a taste of summer freedom, the deal now expired.

Under canvass she removed her top to reveal the soft skin of a twenty-something, enthusiastic without being childish. She set-to unbuttoning his shirt thirsty for his manliness: how long had he waited, had they both waited? At last, the occasion they had prepared themselves for what was now upon them. She slid her delicate fingers beneath the waistband of his suit trousers to encompass his enormous member, wet with dripping anticipation…

The catch on the toilet snapped back from red to green and the door swept back.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he said, reversing without looking.

She broke the briefest of smiles.

That was the trigger. Here she was; the one – she it was, with her lightness of touch, the playfulness of her hair and joyful laugh, who would bring happiness at last. How is it that the universe kept doing this?

Effervescent water was still pouring from the toilet tap and splashing the floor. In a hurry, she brushed past him, her breasts unavoidably rubbing against his jacket lapels. He was instantly and irrevocably aroused, taken, smitten. “Here, let me get that,” he gallantly offered, and stepped into the toilet, briefcase in hand and umbrella under the arm. By this time the water had stopped, the spring mechanism cutting off the water with a thud. He turned around, but her face had gone.

Peering through the sliding door glass down the central aisle, he watched as she breezed back to her seat, her hair bobbing slightly with each step.

Without stopping, her delicious mouth kissed all the way from his chin to his cock, rising as a leviathan to her willing oral administrations. But she was not done: her body turned, manoeuvring herself to receive his pleasures as she also gave – of the sort only he was capable. For now he was master of her body. The smooth sides of her torso fell within his grasp, and with them her bobbling breasts…

The train pulled into a busy Paddington three minutes over time. He wondered whether he had anything to do with it. Rain also continued in London, giving the glass roof of the station an even harder battering. He knew there would be no taxi. Would there be time to catch the bus? It would be full, and the roads would be gorged with the slippery-wheeled drivers, mums on school runs, the hoi palloi.

And as he stared across Praed Street, waiting to cross with brolly hoisted, he caught sight of her again. She was just on the other side, presumably waiting to come back over. She saw him, a mere glimpse with the eyes, though enough to determine a brief recognition, just before a bike courier, taking advantage of a bus pulling over at a stop before the lights, hit full acceleration, rewarding the inattentive commuter with a forceful side-swipe that brought him down with a crack, his temple receiving the full blow from the kerb.

She finished him magnificently, the coup de grace of full and lasting satisfaction, draining his sperm, his very life essence away, yes – fully sucking his life…

Old Heads on Young Bodies

Music!

A sexy girl

Appearing for you

In 1950s full colour

She is young and pretty

A stripper happily stripping

But something's not quite right:

A bygone head; someone's old mum

Such twisted strangeness in attraction

Best unseen, exciting as a bag of oranges

Sexual misgivings – all motherhood and family

Grandma hair, restrained, with a tasteful demeanour

Put the kettle on, love – Oh me stiff old bones! – well done dear

Why You're Wrong About the Rhinos – Part 6

Part 6. An imperfect solution in an imperfect world – practical ideas for the preservation of an endangered species (us)

In this, the last section of this brief examination of our place in our environment, the decision was made to keep the discussion limited to the subjects of preservation and sustainability.

The last section was about the evolution of our ideas about the environment. We have changed our perspectives, and must do so again if we are to have a future where not only do we protect the planet but also survive as a species. But what form should those perspectives take? Time to start thinking realistically.

When Professor of Comparative Anatomy at Cambridge University Alfred Newton lent support for the Seabirds Preservation Act in 1869, which essentially led to the establishment of a 'closed season' from April to August where birds could breed and raise young without interference, the main reason for the bill's passing was not the preservation of birds per se. It was more that the noise of breeding birds could act as an early-warning indicator of the coastline for mariners sailing in bad or foggy weather. Adopting this sort of approach, whereby both humans and animals benefit from the same activity, is key to successful preservation of us and them.

It is obvious to all that natural preserves, like the excellent Slimbridge Wetland Centre or the many national and country parks throughout the world, are good ways for a population to be introduced to the creatures in their environment. But such places, especially if are hands-off reserves, are more like expensive luxuries, particylarly so if their only income is generated by tea-rooms and camera licences or from a charitable offsetting of inheritance tax. A much better approach, therefore, is to involve the whole of the community and seek ways in which human involvement is encourage and welcomed. In order for that to happen, we must perhaps change the way we think about and use the environment.

Many of us still have very traditional ideas about the world around us: Farmer Giles gets up at cock crow to plough the fields or milk the cows, stands around – hands on hip and straw in teeth – and votes for the Conservative Party. This is as outdated a vision as envisioning Saltzburg being filled with knee-slapping lederhosen-wearing Austrians: sure, it'll still be there if you search hard enough. Most 21st-century farmers are operators in what is a now more properly termed agribusiness, where individual farms are afloat on a sea of market forces in the much the same way as car manufacturers or insurance salesmen. And the principle of scale operates as much with farms as it does with car makers and insurance companies – the bigger the better. The mechanisation of nearly all farming activities means that very few people need be occupied in the production of crops, and the only uncertainty is the weather and market price.  

In many cases, incentives are awarded to stop tearing up hedges, draining wetland and felling copses. Although these are no doubt welcome injections of capital, one wonders if by the principle of perverse incentive more hedges could be planted and ponds dug.

Of course, none of this stops environmental degradation. That is the responsibility of every individual. One way or another we are all consumers, but therein lies our power to affect change by the application of market forces. If we each chose to demand environmentally-sustainable products, those very same market forces would force the changes we require from our manufacturers and growers. We would directly seek the establishment of idealogically-loaded incentives to force a change we desire, at least in the products we directly purchase. Awareness is the name of the game.

This is all very well for rich agricultural land, but what about the far-flung places of the world? And what about those rhinos? In a mixed approach, I believe one solution, which may be rather unpalatable for some, may lie in shooting the damned things.

Hunting by land, sea and air was a natural and profitable pastime for our ancestors. It is something we still profit greatly from today, although one could argue that fishing with vast trawler nets is more properly termed harvesting. Shooting birds and animals is still inappropriately named 'hunting', something carried out by ‘hunters’ but, if you'll forgive the pedantry, unless the game is tracked and chased down by dogs and people on horses, such as with fox-hunting, most hunting is in effect merely shooting. Spear or fly-fishing, and shooting, therefore, rather than hunting per se, are the major forms of ‘recreation’ that involve the killing of animals in the environment. And, although many have likened this to ‘the unspeakable chasing the inedible’, in effect field sports keeps our environment from being turned into yet more intensified agricultural land or irreversable building developments. For every grouse moorland, woodland and fly-fishing stream that is maintained, development cannot take place. And because other creatures benefit from the protected habitat then, if anything, more the countryside should be taken up with it! It could be argued, therefore, that shooting, at least as far as the United Kingdom is concerned, is beneficial to wildlife preserves in nearly all cases.

The people who live in the countryside could be widely employed in stock rearing, fencing, habitat preservation, and a whole host of supportive industries. To protect game from poaching decent wages must be paid to those that have a vested interest in the animal’s welfare, at least for the time being. This is sustainable, particularly so for the larger game, such as the poor rhinoceros. The proceeds from testosterone-fuelled idiots, who want to pay $100,000 a pop to shoot one, can be applied to the proper preservation of the rest. Whilst we consider reserves essential, but cannot adequately support them or protect the animals in them from poachers, we must seek other ways. Currently nearly all 'trophy hunting', however, is based outside Africa and very little money finds its way into the pockets of local people. (One could almost justify their need to poach for ivory.) Sustainable shooting is therefore the golden ticket. If that means restructuring the whole business, then so be it.

As previously mentioned, there is a definite illogical dichotomy within our attitude to killing animals. Many will protest against hunting, shooting and fishing, yet go home to sushi, a roast dinner or plate of sausages: one killing is acceptable, the other is clearly not, yet both involve the death of animals. It could be argued that the death of single animals in their natural environment is preferable to the mechanical slaughtering of millions of animals so we can have cheap meat, but it could equally be argued that hunting of endangered species does nothing to assist in their survival and may indeed contribute to its overall loss. As populations increase and pressures on the environment yearly increase, we must face some tough choices about exactly what we do with the other inhabitants of our planet. That question becomes an idealogical choice.

There have been many ways, from governmental and inter-governmental organisations, NGOs, charities and individuals, by which changes have already been effected. Many of these are laudable, but the way in which we support our world, inasmuch as we have yet to transfer production elsewhere, must become personal. We are each the architects of our planet's destruction or its salvation. And whether we kill mosquitoes, eat chickens, adopt rhinos, hunt elephants, or not, we must decide how to utilise our individual stewardship, not only bearing in mind the benefits we receive, but for the impact we make. Whether we like it or not the choices we each make in this regard affect our planet. Our very survival depends on it.

Why You're Wrong About the Rhinos – Part 4

Part 4. Setting up the industrial machine – eating our planet’s animals

In this section, the killing of farm animals is examined. This topic is actually too vast for an entry of this nature, but I will focus on the evolution of the meat eating and animal slaughtering from our earliest days to factory processes currently in operation, and the moral implications of our consumption of meat derived from this.

Animals are, unfortunately, quite tasty. Since Ug and Mug let go their first spears, we have had a very close relationship with animals in our environment  – so close, we relished ingesting them. Leaving aside raw meat and jerky, it is likely that our ancestors discovered that dipping their meaty bits into hot water, rather than fire, was the best method of cooking. The most culinary simpleton would transform into a masterchef by dropping his food into a nearby hot spring and, after fetching it out with a stick a few moments later, could shout hey presto! – he had provided for the Simpleton family easily digestible meat protein that would be ready to go, and at a pleasantly hot temperature. Experimentation with fire, being a much trickier business, no doubt would have required elaborate preparations, care and attention, and more likely than not resulted in uncertain cooking outcomes, i.e. spoilt dinners.

As well as foraging, the practice of hunting, already briefly discussed in part 3, was a means by which we took down animals for their use. For perhaps 200,000 years or more, our forebears took part in running down, trapping, spearing and forcing over cliffs. Adventurous types with refined skills developed weapons such as a bows and arrows, boluses and a spear-throwers to take down game before dispatch and butchery. By these activities we advanced from the mere takers of fresh kills by top-line predators like sabre-toothed cats into the role of top-line predators ourselves. And in so doing, we succeeded in pushing our competitors out of the way, and either directly or indirectly assisting in their eventual extinction. We finally became the kings of our domains.

All manner of animals were hunted, but once we had given up on our hunter-gatherer lifestyles, the obtaining of meat protein was then a matter of farming. As far as early European civilizations are concerned, the selective breeding and rearing of bovines and ovines were skilled pastimes that not only provided a guaranteed source of meat for the pot, but also permitted the benefits of dairy products, wool, hides, dung, tallow, gelatin and glue, soap, sausage casings and horn. Cattle could also be set to work in ploughing and heavy haulage and featured in entertainment and religion. It is no wonder that the keeping of stock signified wealth and that cows were celebrated in many ancient cultures, and remain sacred in Hinduism.

The traditional means of dispatch for a pig, sheep or cow involved the slitting of the throat and bleeding to death, or more properly exsanguination.  There is three problems with death by exsanguination were that it took minutes for the animal to lose consciousness before death occurs, that the animal suffered extreme stress during this procedure, and that there was always a loss of blood, a valuable commodity. To prevent movement (and distress), some butchers stunned the animal with a blow to the forehead from the back of an axe or heavy club before administering the coup de grace.

Usually an autumn or early winter activity, the animal's meat would be quickly butchered and preserved. In order that the work was easily done, many friends and family would be invited to take part in this happy yearly activity and would be paid for their labour with sausages or cuts to take home to salt or preserve with smoke over the fire.

Over time, and as towns grew into cities and its citizenry were without room for their own animals, the slaughtering of domestic animals by dedicated butchers therefore took on a mere utilitarian form. As alluded to in the previous section, the killing of animals became a very questionable practice and it was noted that it tended to attract those with questionable morals. This became so much of a problem that outdoor slaughter was prohibited, and concealed slaughterhouses situated out of town were established. The working practices of slaughterhouses were largely unregulated and must have followed along the same lines as those in developing countries, as in this video:

The advent of refrigeration enabled the slaughtering to occur on an even larger and more mechanised scale. Although the process was technically a disassembly, it is thought that these procedures inspired practices that were later found in assembly lines, such as those of Henry Ford. Working conditions in slaughterhouses, in particular the phsyical and mental condition of the workers, remained a source of deep concern during this formative period within the meat industry.

As the demand for meat has increased, so the processes of slaughtering has become increasingly mechanised. After stressful transportation, electrocution and stunning, exsanguination and immediate processing happens to all animals, and as such they do not die a pretty death. The following video explains how each is commonly done:

 

As 21st century consumers have wanted more and cheaper meat, so these practices have become more and not less common. If meat has to be cheaper, then farmers, transporters, slaughterers and meat packers all have to be paid less. This can only have a detremental effect on the health and welfare of the animals in their charge. Although many slaughterhouses have become more aware of their image, and a great deal has been done to clean up their act, the truth is that until and unless demand for meat decreases, the pressures of the industry will inevitably find release only through the cutting of corners: lower wages and worse conditions for the workers, and in the carelessness for the way in which the animals are slaughtered.

We are generally not prepared for 'suffering' to be included in the list of ingredients of our food, but some do not mind the absence of it being reflected in the price paid. Within the last 20 years or so, ethical meat has become a growing industry led by consumers who have simply not wanted the animals they eat to have suffered from the cruel practices of factory farming (but who, it must be said, do not necessarily have much knowledge regarding transportation or slaughtering). The ethical consumer may still not be aware of the entire process of slaughtering, even if it is relatively 'sanitised' as in the following video:

In recent years, the fate of horses destined for slaughter has been scandalously exposed as not so much for dog, but human comsumption. Although we may have recoiled from this, we have unknowingly been complicit in the slaughter of other animals, even if we have not eaten them directly. The dairy industry has long relied on the removal of week-old male calves in order that they will not suckle on 'our' milk – and they're not exactly led out to pasture. In addition, the leather of our coats and shoes has not grown on trees. Wool will probably not have come from a slaughtered sheep, but the animals will inevitably end up slaughtered. And then there’s the method of dispatch, the wages, health and welfare of meat workers and packers, the impact of waste and the inoculations and hormone treatment: this business has a big impact on our environment, our society and our health. To believe otherwise is to ignore the truth.

Perhaps the only animals generally raised in a ‘natural’ setting are sheep and cows, although stalling cows is now becoming much more manageable and profitable. So, unless stated otherwise all chickens are raised in atrocious cramped conditions. Unless stated otherwise, all pigs are raised in concrete stalls. Unless hand-raised, all animals will be killed en  masse in enormous abattoirs. No animals were designed for such a life, or death, and until such time as animals may be genetically altered with these procedures in mind, we are each complicit in the sufferings of animals. We just don’t see it, and that's no surprise because it has been deliberately hidden from us. In addition, if we realise our part in the sufferings of animals then we are also to admit guilt and have to do something about it, or cut it out of our conscience.

To recap, humans have always eaten animals, but the yearly method of despatch in our dim and distant past has now become an hourly thing of the factory. We have been conveniently ignorent of injury to animals destined for the pot, whether that be though raising, containment, rearing, transportation or slaughter. It quickly becomes apparent that, whether we like it or not, our comsumption of meat has a moral impact on the lives and deaths of the animals consumed and on ourselves.

In the next section I will discuss conservation and habitat protection, and how that has an impact not only on the sustianability of our world, but also, through the food that we eat, on ourselves.

Why You're Wrong About the Rhinos – Part 3

Part 3. What we do when we start killing things – control, dominate, destroy

In this section will be examined just what happens to us when we kill animals.

Humans are, if nothing else, masters of control. We control everything in our environment except the wind, waves and the planet's techtonic movements. We love our ability to control and get mad as badgers if our flight's arrival time, our children's behaviour, our nuclear reactor's functioning or the availability of chicken nuggets lies beyond it (see video below). This largely positive controlling aspect of our human nature has hitherto helped to construct a world in which we have largely been able to get what we want and, by implication, remove that which we don't want.

 

Extended into the world of nature, we have sought to 'control' populations of pests, such as mice, locusts and even elephants: we have wanted them to stick to our rules (not to eat the crops in our fields). The traditional penalty for breaking our rules has been death because, of course, there's no reasoning to be had with animals. From pest control to buffalo hunting, we've shown ourselves to be a dab hand at killing animals that, for whatever reason, we haven't wanted around.

Of course, traditional hunting culminated in the death of the quarry, but this act was often seen as part of a cosmic drama, sometimes celebrated in glorious artistic ways. Through hunting, mankind had clearly shown his domination over powerful beasts, and this emotional act of power became symbolised in ritual – for example, asking permission from the spirit of the animal for its death. Over time this exciting pursuit in the wild became twisted into barbarous acts of baiting mostly carried out in major cities, where animal cruelty was enjoyed as some sort of catharsis. In most countries, law makers have seen fit to outlaw this.

Other than in the case of top-line predators, it was in no one's interest to eliminate all the animals of forest or moorland, either for sport or food. But the unleashing of our powerful behaviour to hunt did became our unavoidable input in species extinction. Dodos, Tasmanian tigers and passenger pigeons are all dead and gone for a reason – we found it near-impossible to control our urge to kill. In our attempts to control our environment and the animals within it, it looks like we missed out on the ability to control ourselves. Why?

It seems that once humans get a taste for slaughter, they become desensitised to it. Killing our first farmyard chicken may be a seminal moment – after all, the taking of a life has a squalid and merciless quality to it. That one event may remain in the head long after the animal's choicest parts were consumed. And we have tended to laugh about it all because it is essential to shrug off powerful emotions that get in the way of our enjoyment of the wonderful delights of carnivorism, just like Homer:

Other than for unfeeling psychopaths, each person is aware of the shocking quality that characterises the extinction of life. If we do it enough times, however, that shocking feeling becomes inevitably numbed (or we go to pieces) and we begin the process of turning ourselves into blazé killers. Do government vets weep bitter tears over the daily disposal of kittens? Do lab technicians take into account the feelings of animals that undergo anaesthetic-free procedures that result in death? Do slaughterhouse workers regret each cut of the knife as they despatch their daily quota? For each of these those natural human feelings of empathy, and of remorse when we have caused suffering, must necessarily be subsumed. And that is a culturally-acquired characteristic. Cats may enjoy killing birds, but that is part of their in-built mechanism for survival. Each human being must learn how to kill and then to kill again until it becomes an unremarkable and meaningless act. In effect, we turn ourselves into serial killers.

The frightening thing is that this subsuming or desensitisating of natural feelings about killing has a tendency to cross the species barrier, and not just for the notorious psychotic serial killers who practice their arts on stolen family pets. Of concern to Heinrich Himmler was the morale of his SS concentration camp guards. It was important that they remove that squishy emotion called empathy when dealing even with the extermination of hundreds of thousands of Jews and other prisoners in the death camps:

Most of you know what it means when a hundred corpses are lying side by side, or five hundred, or a thousand. To have stuck it out, and at the same time — apart from exceptions caused by human weakness — to have remained decent fellows, that is what has made us hard. This is a page of glory in our history, which has never been written and is never to be written.... We had the moral right, we had the duty to our people, to destroy this people which wanted to destroy us.

Now, it's a long way from the average Joe who does a 9-5 in the town's abbatoir to willing and obedient marching hordes of the SS, but it has been known for a long time that there are higher incidences of violent crime and abuse by workers in the industrial slaughterhouses and meat-processing plants. Not that every worker becomes a zoosadist, but desensitising a meat worker into a go-to-work killer is a degrading pattern of behaviour that seems to follow a trend: up the pressures on the worker by keeping their wages low, make them work long hours and expect them to daily commit lethal violence on animals. It is no surprise that acts of cruelty towards stock under their control becomes commonplace and in some cases the animals bound for slaughter become the hated toythings of the workers (see part 4). The trend is to control, dominate and destroy.

Perhaps the most important point of all of this is that the work of slaughtering animals has become a secret industry. We simply do not want to see what goes on inside, thereby condoning the practices of killing by our indifference and ignorance: we want them hidden and silent. Perhaps things would change if slaughterhouses had glass walls, or that school trips were arranged, or abattoirs set up their own TV channels. But of course this would never happen: only strong stomachs can stand around gawping at animals being bled to death, a quick visit to the disassembly line of chickens bound for the supermarkets would likely make vegetarians of every 8-year old, and The Abattoir Channel would be seen as merely bad taste at best or a corrupting influence at worse.

As a species, our morals in terms of the killing of animals operate therefore on a double-standard. Humans abhor cruelty, loudly condemning it against some animals (the family pet), but are perfectly happy to permit it done to others (farm creatures). We want to eat meat, but want the animals concerned to be magically transformed from living creatures on farms into yummy delicacies on the plate without knowing the process of how it is done. In effect, unless shown that process, it isn't give a thought. That process, therefore, will be shown in the next part of this series.

In this third part of six, the effect of the act of killing animals has been examined. It has been shown that the act of slaughtering not only affects the sensitivity of the workers to suffering, but is also a process from which we wish to remain strangely divorced yet firmly attached.

In The Line of Duty

Structuring the length of beasts, the fishes mouth hatted on the giraffe on sale. Busy in six thouwsand sales, a new buyer for the taxidermy looked for taxidermy in artistic trendless vogue. Two-prongued attack looked for eye-catching ploys that were pretty amazing.

Pieces of leather and wood become more popular until they get a pair. The collapse gallery is real – the real deal. They speak to some, as the real deal.

One hundred and fits, keeping nice and warm, a head and shoulder moment, a valuation of the collection, and it's time to share the figure. Our valuaver pits the price higher. £2000= £5000+ £15,000.

TV tonight goes on and on,, without a reason to live.

And then, the Line fo Duty, Oh!