Friday, February 28, 2003

Given the recent rash of pleasant weather, gentle reader, you’ve probably taken to frolicking through campus. The next time you frolic—you do frolic, don’t you?—I want you to take special notice of how people treat animals. I have played witness to some frightening spectacles that would make ASPCA members strangle their cats in righteous fury. These stories are mostly true.

Story 1: Return with me to freshman year, a time that necessitated mindless interaction with, oh, EVERY LIVING SOUL out of a desire for friends. It is a chilly September afternoon, and I am clomping down Sheridan Road with a brown-haired fellow. Midway through regaling me with his travels in Germany, he stops. A squirrel sits on its haunches about ten feet away, nibbling on something or another. Herr Deutschland’s mien twists into one of a S.S. Officer. He roars at the squirrel, sending it away in an angry chatter.

“Ha!” he exults triumphantly. “Squirrels are so funny.”

Story 2: It is summer of sophomore year, and I am walking past the decrepit lot once called “Yesterday’s.” Two women stand in front of its entrance, jabbering about the politics of the day. A baby squirrel approaches one of the women.

“Oh, how cute!” she exclaims. “It’s a baby squirrel.”

“Look, it’s coming nearer,” observes Tweedle Dum.

Tweedle Dee sticks out her sandaled foot to the squirrel, who reciprocates with a vicious nibble.

“Oh my GOD!” shrieks Tweedle Dee.

“What if you get RABIES?!” shouts Tweedle Dum, who pulls out her cell phone to call for help.

Story 3: It is late fall of senior year, a cold hazy night filled with drunken revelry. Having just left a birthday dinner, Tim and I—the designated walker—navigate our way up to Kemper. Tim’s inebriation wrought little damage on his rhetoric, though, and instead enhanced it with disturbing clarity.

We happen upon a rotund baby bird.

“What a cute little bird!” I say with childlike wonderment.

“I know!” chimes in a woman following closely behind us.

“Don’t step on it!” says Tim in a loud, didactic voice to the woman, myself, and the bird. He folds his hands behind his back Socrates-style, proceeds to whistle snatches of Handel’s “Messiah,” and shambles on with a philosophical air.

And in that moment, Cicero, Quintilian, and Hermagoras collectively turned in their graves.

That’s all we have for tonight, gentle reader. May you wake up tomorrow with neither hangover nor pregnancy.