ADAM'S ANIMAL STORIES
by Adam C. Burke
Anyone who has had close relationships with animals, as have I for virtually my entire life, may understand all these accounts as ordinary. Yet, I know so many people who have never experienced a close relationship with an animal and therefore don’t consider how conscious they really may be. I think humans do terrible things to animals in our ignorance of the animals’ place -- or our own place -- in this world! I feel clear that animals, like individual humans, deserve the same basic rights we expect from others. Our insistence upon being treated well, and treating ourselves well, we derive from the sense that we are created by God, and so, we deserve respect. But didn't God create all creatures?
Or, in secular terms, do not all animal species have their own histories on this planet? We came along rather late on the scene. Most insects and animals have existed in generations millions of years older than our earliest ones. I’m not sure we ought to assume authority over them. We apparently don’t do so well even with ourselves. We’re destroying life and habitats at an alarming rate, because we don’t know any better. So far as I’ve seen, animals do much better than we do with their environs. If harmony within your ecosystem is any gauge of the success of a species, on that basis I would conclude that we’re messing up quite early in our existence on Earth, and rather dramatically.
I think we could stand to learn a lot, by example, from the animals. These stories are ones where I learned a lot. Or deepened the mystery -- same thing.
I am telling these stories with a minimum of exaggeration, and with sincere attention to facts and details. Allowing for the intrinsic limitations of words to completely express truths, these accounts are absolutely true.
Life with Lila/Kama Comes
My dog, Lila, comes up to me just after I had finished a pastry in her absence. She looks expectant, as I usually give her a taste of what I eat. I tell her "There is no more," whereupon she immediately changes her expression and body posture to one obvious of disappointment. I say, "I could give you 'treats,'" and she looks at me directly, anticipatory. I clarify, "You want 'treats?'" She does her stretching behavior with a look that says, as this look always does, "Of course, yes!" Just for fun, I ask, "Where are those treats?" She gives me the same look only she moves toward the kitchen where they are kept.
All of this has been in a low and quiet, regularly conversational tone. Our conversation happened complete with her initial inquiry of me, her learning from me that I have no tarts, my offering an alternative, which she decides she wants, and her letting me know that she knows where we can get it.
So, if this does not constitute a fully effective conversation, quite as a dialogue between people would go, and with the same meaning conveyed, then I don’t know what it is. This manner of dialogue is typical of all our frequent "conversations."
I think maybe anyone can converse with animals, so long as we are willing and able to listen. We tend to imagine animals someday speaking to us in our native tongue, but it is we who are the masters of spoken language. If a person can speak five or six languages, why can't we speak Humpback Whale or Elephant? We are the "speakers" on the Planet! Maybe our dogs want us to talk to them in dog!
I have no doubt that when I talk with some animals, they "talk" back. I
talk much more to the ones that live in my house, as I do with people, also. I
don’t say much to the birds in the yard, because they are like strangers at a
mall, with whom I also seldom talk. I have had conversations with animals that
are mere "acquaintances," such as the noteworthy one I had with Fred the
cat, regarding tablas.
When Kama, the gerbil, is out of her cage, I quite regularly call her to
me, and she comes within half a minute nearly every time. We may not share
dialogue with much meaning, as with Lila. Of course, I am, in effect, more involved with my dog than with Kama. The gerbil and I do not share
a great deal of affection, because she doesn’t like to be held. So, we behave more like
roommates than siblings or father and daughter, as with Lila and me. Perhaps
gerbils don’t have the same level of interest in conversing with humans as
dogs do! Domestic dogs have evolved over the span of time they have lived with
humans, dialoguing all the while. They're surely more accustomed to it.
Goldfish Compassion
I can never forget the sad, but surprising and beautiful story about my goldfish. I had rescued some "feeder fish," and they lived happily in my pond where they grew quite large. There were five, and one developed a classic case of "fin rot." In order to treat it, I set up a relatively shallow temporary hospital tank near the pond and put this fish in. I turned away to attend to something, and this was a mistake. The fish, unbeknownst to me, leapt out of the tub onto the dry patio. I returned a few minutes later and discovered, to my horror, the fish barely flopping and a bit parched. I quickly dispatched it back into the pond with the other fish, then watched hopefully to see if it would survive.
Very much to my surprise, I observed the other four fish swimming near the injured one. Working together, they proceeded to support their companion from underneath as they pushed him around near the surface of the water! They worked as a team, some supporting the fish from underneath, others flanking him, and taking shifts as they moved the injured fish forward so that water would move through its gills. Weakly, it struggled to survive, barely able to move its fins and gulp water as the diligent companions continued to offer their emergency services. I watched, amazed, for nearly a half an hour as this scene continued.
As with most fish, and certainly these, feeding time is a time of frenzied focus as they rush to eat their fill. I wondered if these, both the injured one and its helpers, needed to eat, and whether, if I fed them at this point, the helpers would abandon their friend for the food. As they had not been fed that day, I needed to feed them, anyway. I put the usual amount of flakes onto the surface of the water. But, surprisingly and very much out of character, not a single fish endeavored to eat a single morsel of the sinking food flakes! They, instead, continued to buoy the injured fish about near the water’s surface for many ensuing hours without so much as taking a bite!
Sadly, their efforts would fail. I later found the injured fish at the bottom of the pond. As I buried him pond-side, I reveled in the amazing lesson I had learned about the capacity for fish to exhibit compassion and self-sacrifice! What else could explain this behavior?
Fred, the Cat, and the Tabla Drums
Years ago, I had taken my dog to my parents’ house for an extended visit, as I had become too involved with the remodeling of my house to care for her adequately there. Her "grandparents" loved to have her, and she enjoyed the double-attention she lavishly received from them.
Meanwhile, a neighborhood stray cat that everyone called "Fred" took this opportunity to visit. Lazily, as this was his way, he’d lounge on the floor of my living room for hours on end. Sometimes, he’d even stay overnight with me. He was clean and very well mannered, so I enjoyed his visits. He was not at all the kind of cat that rubs up against everything, or scratches at the furniture, or perpetrates any number of other objectionable things some lesser-mannered cats do. In fact, he generally just stared at me with his piercing gaze, and he never so much as touched a thing in the house. Sometimes, he’d linger near my dog’s empty food dish, and sometimes I’d give him some dry dog food, which I don’t think he liked very much, though he’d eat it just the same.
One such night, as he lay passively on the rug staring at me, I undertook to speak with him. I say "with," because I am quite accustomed to talking to animals, but not as often do they respond so definitively as Fred did that night.
"Who are you, Fred? All these years you’ve lived in this neighborhood, you just stare at me as if you know me or can see right through me. I feel like I know you, too. Did we know each other in some ‘previous life’?"
At this moment, a most remarkable series of events unfolded before my eyes. Fred leapt up onto his feet and hurried to my Indian tabla drums, which sat nearby. These drums have fabric-covered wooden discs for covers, and these covers have 10-inch strings attached for tying to the drum straps. On this night, the strings hung free, untied. Fred, quite immediately, took up one of these strings into his mouth and began to tug and pull, as though to dislodge the cover. Despite the fact that there rested a substantial stack of rather heavy books atop the drum cover, Fred pulled, walking backwards, until the cover gave way and a shower of books rained down onto the floor, nearly burying him underneath. Fortunately, he backed away fast, just in time to miss the landslide. He then hurried across the room and sat in front of the dog dish as though nothing at all had happened. And he just stared at me.
As the dust settled and I regained some composure, I tried to sort out what had just happened. As I said, Fred had never so much as rubbed up against a piece of furniture. Now, he had just done this most unusual and dangerous thing! Still astonished, I said, "Fred! What was that?" Then I remembered that I had previously asked him a rather direct question. "Oh my God," I exclaimed, "Did you answer my question?" I kidded with him, "Were you a tabla player in a previous life?" At this prompting, he then briskly trotted back to the drum cover and, picking up the same string with his mouth, chewed it a couple of times. Then, just as suddenly, he dropped everything and went to the front door to be let out. Even this was highly unusual, because, typically, I’d have to "invite" him to leave. As I let him out, I said something like, "Well, Fred, thank you! You are most welcome here any time," whereupon he disappeared into the night.
This entire sequence elapsed within the span of about one minute. I continue to wonder what he really meant by this most aberrant act. He spent many hours with me in the months after that, but never again touched anything in the house.
The Tortoise Rescues Her Mate!
One morning, I woke to some clattering noises in my bedroom. Seems the tortoise had come in the room again, and he was making his rounds. Human families raised my male tortoise, so being inside was natural for him, and he seemed to enjoy exploring about the house every few days. I ignored him and dozed back to a half-sleep. Somehow, a few minutes later, I could feel a strange presence. So, I opened my eyes, and there, beside my mattress on the floor, just next to where my head lay, stood not the male tortoise at all, but the female.
She had lived in my yard for over three years, and she never came in the house. Unlike the male of the pair, she was not raised close to people. Yet, here she sat still, looking at me in that turtle way, staring, motionless. I wondered, "What’s going on? Maybe she’s trying to tell me something." I couldn’t imagine what a tortoise on this mid-summer morning sitting at the head of my bed could possible want. Desert tortoises need very little water, and there was some outside. I was yet half-awake.
I went in to brush my teeth, as I could not go back to sleep. The tortoise then came and sat in the middle of the hall between the bedroom and bathroom doorways. Again, she just sat motionless, legs completely relaxed, shell on the floor.
This time, I knew something must be wrong. Anyone who has dealt with desert tortoises -- indeed, most any sort of turtle -- will know that if a turtle is turned over, it can be in danger. I hurried outside to see if it could be the male tortoise on his back. In the Arizona summer, It would not be long before this could do him in. Sure enough, there he lay, upside-down and struggling, but in the shade of a tree. I uprighted him, and he was fine after a rest and some water. He had gotten along in years and would sometimes fall backwards after mating.
The female tortoise did not come in the house at all for another couple of years. When she came in the house again one summer day, I immediately felt sure I knew what she was trying to tell me. At first glance in the yard, I did not see the male at all. But, she just remained there in that spot on the floor. So, I explored more carefully. This time, I found the male on his back, again in the shade.
After the day he died, she never tried to tell me anything else, but the truth may be more that I haven’t heard her say anything else. What is clear to me is that she valued, perhaps truly loved, her mate. And, she apparently understood the point in telling me when he was in danger.
Spider Tales and Fly Stories
On a recent September day, while on my way to the movie theatre to meet Forrest, my partner, one of those jumpy little spiders and I had a nice interaction for the duration of the drive. I had noticed him on the inside of the windshield as I had dried and polished the outside earlier that day.
When I embarked, the spider came walking along the top of the dash, directly in front of me. It climbed down along the edge toward the display. I put my finger near it and said, "Come on, get on my finger so I can take you to a plant when we arrive." It did as I suggested. Then I told it to stay there (on my left hand) until we get where I’m going. I said, "You’re moving, today."
It walked around on my hand for most of the duration of the trip, but then went up my arm a bit before jumping onto the maps in the door panel side pocket, near my leg. It stayed there for the remaining two or three minutes of the trip. Before I opened the door, I reached my finger to it again and told it to get on. It did. Then, I got out, locked the door, and told it to not jump off my hand yet, "I’m taking you to a bush. Don’t jump off!" The spider looked right at my face for the entire time it took to walk from the car to the bush, about 20 feet. I placed my finger and the spider close to a leaf on the bushes at the side of the theatre building, and I told it to go off. It backed up onto my finger, but I told it again and held it closer to the edge of a leaf. It walked off of my hand and into the bush.
Years earlier, I had another intimate interaction with a similar type of arachnid. I sat at my back patio, when along came a spider. The little thing was the type that looks like a big earthmover tractor, the springy kind that jumps far. Anyway, here came one that I surmised had jumped off a nearby sumac leaf. It moved up my left hand toward my arm. I’m not afraid of this kind of spider; in fact, I found this one pretty adorable, for a spider! But, I wasn’t interested in letting it crawl up my arm, either. It kept stopping and turning to look at my face for a moment before it continued to come up my arm. When it started for my open short shirtsleeve, I moved my right hand in front of it. It hopped onto my hand. So, I lay my hand on the table, hoping it would want to get off, but the spider walked across my hand and toward my arm, then started coming up again.
I put the other hand on my arm, in the way of the spider, and it jumped on. So, I decided to play, too. I held my hand, with the spider, at eye level and I put my other hand along side, between the spider hand and my face. The spider moved on to the closer hand, then hopped across it toward my face, looking into my eyes all the while, so far as I could tell. Maybe it was the shine of them. After all, their eyes are dark and shiny, too. Anyway, I kept alternating hands so that it remained the same distance away from my face. But, the spider persisted, bouncing across each hand as I held it out, incessantly trying to come toward my face.
Amazingly, we kept this up for maybe fifteen minutes without a break! Finally, I got tired of the game, and so I put my hand -- the one with the spider -- on the edge of a planter at the center of the table. He paused for a while, then went down my thumb toward the pot. Arriving at the tip of my thumb, this spider turned back and faced me, directly. There it sat, staring, for nearly a minute. It turned back around and climbed off of my thumb onto the edge of the pot where, again, it turned to face me and stared for a moment! Then it disappeared into the planter.
I’ve had flies alight on me and rest calmly, even though I’ve tried to startle them off. Some flies have even sat near me, and when I put my finger quite near them, hopped onto my fingertip, maybe walking around on my hand quite calmly, then stopping to clean themselves. These flies do not extend their proboscises and try to sample my skin.
I can sometimes just "tell" that the fly I’m looking at is "one of those friendly flies." The test is, I put a finger near them, about a quarter of an inch away. If they hop onto my finger, but otherwise do not try to feed on my skin, then I know it's a friendly one. Some of these flies have sat on or near me in this way for a half an hour, a year in the life of a fly. Once, a fly like this rode on my arm in my van for 8 miles with the windows down! When I returned to my van over an hour later, this same fly was still in my open vehicle. It came onto my arm again, but then flew out the window as I left for home.
Of course, why a fly would do something like this, I haven’t a clue.
Jamming With Diggity
I once had a dog named H. Diggity Dawg, the "H" for "Hot," of course. She was a long-haired, black half dachshund or something. I’ve always preferred "mutts" for personality, and I found this one, stray and sick on the street.
We were best of friends. I think she could have become a show dog, because she loved to show off to everyone her many talents. She could climb, by herself, a wooden ladder all the way to the roof of the house, then get off and walk around on it with complete confidence. Of course, I’d have to carry her down! Any old ladder you set up, she’d try to climb. She was a very quick learner, and she seemed to love new tricks. On command, she could pick out from her three stuffed animals the correct one by name. She would even eat and go pee at my request, though I seldom asked her to do these things.
In no time at all, I taught her how to "play" many different musical instruments. If you held a guitar in front of her and said, "Go on, play it," she'd strum down across the strings with her toenails, "SWAAANG!"
She also would do the same on any drum held vertically in front of her. But, by far, her favorite instrument was the toy piano. Sometimes I could not get her to stop. She loved it, and she would even continue to play while ignored! She’d just bark a little louder as she banged away at the keys. She wasn’t much with melody or rhythm, but she was big on glitz. It was always a very big production and she seemed full of herself.
After this sort of thing became a daily occurrence, I decided to try a double keyboard set-up with her. I plugged in the CASIO and set it atop the toy piano. She got into playing position, and all I had to say was, "Play ‘em both! Go on!" She played the piano first, one paw style, and then the other paw went up onto the synthesizer. That was all the instruction she needed. She was a natural talent. I just helped it come out.
But, truly the highlight of her musical life, or really I should say, of my musical life, happened one night as I plucked around on my upright bass, "Dum, Dum, Dum...." Diggity stared at me for a few moments, then got that piano playin’ look in her eye. She hurried to the keys and started banging away, barking gleefully. Then it happened. I realized "I am jamming with my dog." What’s more, it was her idea.
She was a good one.
A Hummingbird in the Hand is Priceless
One late afternoon, I heard a commotion along the inside of the sliding glass doors that lead to the back yard. Sometimes, black, bumbling "carpenter" bees come in the door I have left open. When this happens, I have to carefully escort them back out. "Carefully," so that I don't injure the beautiful and gentle bees. These bees do not sting. Their passion is wood.
This day, it was not a bee that had taken the "wrong turn" into my house, but a delicate and colorful hummingbird. It had struggled along, beating at the glass briefly, but now rested, worn out, in a cobweb in the corner at the floor. I wasn't sure how I would be able to handle such a fragile and high energy bird, but my impulse was to simply lift it up out of the web very gently with both hands.
It lay perfectly still, frightened, maybe exhausted, maybe stunned, on my right palm. I drew my hand close to look at this little wonder. Its tiny black eyes were wide open and I looked into one. The sensation of holding a hummer was exhilarating, especially because the bird seemed to have no weight at all! It was truly "light as a single feather."
I could see that it was not injured. It just lay belly down with its wings spread out on both sides across my palm! I slowly moved my hand toward the opening in the door, and just as I held it out through the opening, this little iridescent gem darted away in a flash -- "0 to 60 in less than a millisecond!"
Another spring day, while the lemon tree had its fragrant blossoms, a hummingbird darted about, feeding on the nectar of the little white flowers. I approached and was able to watch, quite close. I took a flower off the tree and held it up near the other flowers. The bird came along and dipped its beak into this flower with a calm that suggested mine was just like any other flower on the tree. I would never forget it.
A Bat in the Morning Sun
One early summer morning while I was working at an apartment complex, I caught a glimpse of a small, dark something on a nearby wall in the first rays of the risen sun. I couldn't make out what it was, but my curiosity had got the better of me.
I had long loved bats. As a kid, I had mice, gerbils, hamsters, and rats, but a bat is like a mouse that can sail through the sky! To me, mice were very cute, and it seemed to me that one with wings would be even cuter. I understand now that it would not be appropriate to try to keep bats. I currently have a "bat house" installed under an eave of my roof, but to confine a bat would be to deny its chance to catch fresh food on the wing, as most bats do. The "sonar" used by such bats is truly a wonder of the animal kingdom for its precision.
I felt so fascinated with bats as a child, I even wrote a letter to a scientist that studies bats, whose article I read in National Geographic. He was kind enough to write me back. So, to be standing this morning a mere three feet away from an actual bat was a little dream come true!
My first concern, however, was whether there might be something amiss with this bat, such as illness or injury. I moved closer, very slowly so not to frighten it, and I could see that its delicate face, with its mouse-like wet nose and whiskers, was completely alert. I looked into its pinhead sized, black little eye, and it gently twitched its ears and whiskers at me. Its fur was shiny and clean. Mice and similar rodents are meticulous about hygiene, and so apparently was this little one.
What I did then I would never recommend to anyone. That should be clearly understood, as it could be quite dangerous, especially with the recent return of rabies in the southwest and elsewhere. One should never touch an immobile bat, because that could be a sign of serious illness. It is best to just leave them be. Especially in a case such as this, because this little brown bat remained clinging to a place on a stucco wall a mere four feet above ground. These bats tend to roost close to other bats, just as humans like to sleep with their partners, for warmth of the family. A bat exposed on a wall like this is a rare event. The sun had apparently not shone on the bat long enough for its mammalian blood to warm. Generally, a cold bat can't fly immediately after waking.
I carefully considered the danger in trying to touch a bat found in this way. But, for me, the wonder I felt as I crouched a bit and leaned in to look close at the tiny face of this little winged ball of fuzz was overwhelming. In fact, I observed very carefully and for an extended period of time before I reached a finger tip to gently stroke the paper thin ears of this sleepy bat. I was able to ever so delicately stroke its head. I was surprised to discover that its fur was so soft, I could barely feel it; even softer than a mouse. It seemed quite calm and not at all unhappy about this interaction, but not nearly as happy as I at that moment!
I was so taken by the experience, I sat and drew a detailed pencil sketch of this little bat, which I keep with my other artwork. I really felt awe stricken to have had such an intimate experience with an animal I had loved for years.
I returned to this spot nearly 20 minutes later, and the bat had flown away, so I was glad it was well and that I had offered morning greetings to this little one!
A Beautiful and Sad Scene
This story contains descriptions that some may find objectionable. Reader discretion is advised. I intend to paint a painting of a scene I saw that touched me. I will try to describe it here with words, though they can't do justice to the beauty of this event.
Just outside the window of the room where I meditate, there are cacti of the Yucca variety. As you may know, their long spikes radiate out from a trunk like extremely pointed and sharp-edged blades, every bit as harsh as the sharpest sword. They can inflict serious injury if one is not careful. Desert plants develop extreme defenses in order to protect their precious moisture in the very dry, very hot desert.
On a particular day, I happened to notice one of the most amazing and unlikely things I have ever seen. It seems that an adult sparrow had somehow died and fallen, upside down, directly onto the central vertical spike of the yucca plant at the center of my window garden. The bird had apparently fallen from the fronds of the palm tree high above the cactus. It had landed in such a way as to have been pierced directly through its chest, so that its head, wings and feet splayed out and down toward the ground with fully one inch of the yucca spike projecting up through the center of the bird's chest. This seems so gruesome, yet the grace of the wings, completely open and extended as in flight, the head tilted slightly to the side and back with open eyes, and the feet projecting out as though grasping at a branch of air, resulted in a most unlikely, yet exquisitely sad and beautiful scene. Far too beautiful to describe. All I could think of was the image of the crucifixion of Christ, such was the surrender and grace and the terrible irony of the death of such a delicate creature. I remembered the phrase from the Bible assuring us that not even the fall of a single sparrow can escape the all-seeing and loving Eye of God.
The central upward spike of a yucca is a composite of many leaves, as they grow up and out from the center. It is therefore, an especially rigid structure that could easily impale any body unfortunate enough to fall directly down onto it. In the ensuing days, the cactus continued to try to grow up and out in that way, but the bird's body held the spikes together, so they just arched outward under the bird, forming what then looked more and more like a king's crown, if you can imagine that, with a crucified bird on the point at its top. I wondered for weeks about what possible sequence of unlikely events could result in a sparrow falling backwards in this way and so far down onto a yucca spike, directly through the center of its back and chest. I felt some comfort in the conclusion that it must have died before its fall to have fallen "upside down." I cut off the top of this bird-impaling yucca, as I could not bear to see the cactus eventually tear the bird asunder. Also, I wanted to study the image in sketches for an eventual painting. Of course, as with all things, after many months, the bird and cactus top returned to dust. I never want to forget this most beautiful and rare scene, sad as it was.
On Not Eating Animals
Many people choose to eat less meat for reasons related to their personal health, but my decision to discontinue eating any and all meat was based solely on ethical considerations. While growing evidence shows that meat in our diet may pose serious health concerns ranging from E. coli and "Mad Cow" to high blood pressure and obesity, my decision to stop eating meat had little to do with my own health. Rather, my lifelong love of animals dictated that I could no longer eat them. Simply, put, I think animals offer to humans things of much greater value when they are alive than when they are dead. Also, it seems clear to me that meat is an unnecessary part of a healthy human diet, as evidenced by the thousands of millions of Hindus and Buddhists around the world, and others, who live free of meat products.
Recent investigations reveal that many livestock animals not only live in cruel and brutal conditions throughout their lives, but more and more slaughterhouses fail to practice "humane" methods of killing animals. I was horrified when I read these first-hand accounts of meat industry employees. It's hard to face such facts, but it is worse to ignore them.
I understand that many human groups on this planet, such as the Inuit, for example, live in conditions that require meat eating to survive. I have no problem with this, especially because these peoples "harvest" animals that have lived healthy and robust lives. Also, these peoples tend to revere the animals they eat, they take only what is absolutely necessary, and they use every part of the animal they take. My objection in our culture is how our animals are treated and killed, especially in light of all of the healthy dietary alternatives available to us that render this brutality completely unnecessary. To a doctor trying to convince me that if I were to not resume eating meat, I would die, I would have to say, "It's been nice knowing you." Outside of some unimaginably desperate situation, I will never again eat an animal.
My personal guideline is, "I'll eat nothing with eyes, except potatoes." I figure if an animal can "see" the world around it, it's too much like myself to be food. I'd far rather look into the eyes of an animal than see parts of it on my plate. I have enjoyed excellent health during this time, and a rich vegetarian diet has left me not wanting meat at all.
Fortunately, there are more and more products available at the grocery store to enhance a fully non-meat diet. The wide range of "meatless burgers," bacon, hot dogs, sausage and "chicken" nuggets and patties enable me and others to enjoy full and varied meal options that promote personal health, as well as the health of countless animals whose lives are spared by such culinary choices. As the demand grows for non-meat foods, even restaurants and fast food establishments increasingly offer "veggie burgers" and "vegetarian" menu items. It is becoming easier to maintain delicious, healthy and ethical consumption. Indeed, the increasing quality and variety of these food options leaves me wondering why anyone considering a vegetarian diet would not simply replace their meat choices with these healthy alternatives.
But even for those who do not wish to completely eliminate meat from their diets, simply choosing "veggie" alternatives from time to time can make a big difference, both for the animals, and in terms of the choices that food producers will continue to develop and offer at the marketplace.
Throughout my life, I have endeavored to improve my own understanding of my responsibility to both domestic and wild animals. My mother continues to take in injured wild birds and other animals and help them to recover. It has been inspiring to me to watch formerly sick birds fly back to their families with renewed health gifted by my mother's ceaseless determination, skilled efforts, and love. After her wonderful example, I continue to try to have greater empathy with all animals and to assist them to the best of my ability.
If you love animals, consider replacing meat with some of the many alternatives that are becoming widely available. Your body may thank you, and so will our animal friends!
All text © 2001 Adam C. Burke