November 21, 2007 at 2:53 am Leave a comment

It is almost 9:30 pm the Tuesday before Thanksgiving 2007. I stare at my  screen and “listen” to my computer “creak and groan” with the weight of thousands of files and anguished pleas for assistance from every corner of the globe. 

On my hard drive, saved and classified by country of origin  are thousands of photos in Technicolor that give hard evidence of the brutal and cruel abuse that animals, all kinds of animals, suffer at the hands of man. 

I “zone out” at times and like a slide show, the despairing faces of the hundreds upon hundreds of animals from all over the world, that have died in my arms over the years move stealthily, but lovingly, one by one, into my consciousness. 

They haunt me.  Perhaps they come to remind me why the Creator deposited me in this place, at this time, in this form.  Endowed with a too well developed sensitivity I suffer with the animals (those that I see, those that I don’t – those that I hear about, those that I know) who have fallen prey to the cunning and cruelty of the  human animal.  

Each and every day, I wrestle with my conscience not to avert my attention from the holocaust in order to spare my delicate sensibilities. 

Every rescuer, and animal rights activist carries an imprint on their soul, a special “indelible brand”  if you will, which ignites their inexplicable and fervent desire to alleviate the suffering of the voiceless.  Why?  How does this happen?  Where and what is its point of origination?

Is it a pre-destined cross we bear?Are we destined to make reparation for the sins we may have committed against these vulnerable creatures in a previous incarnation? Is it the stigma of Karmic intervention?  Is it a malfunctioning neuron in our emotional wiring or is it a special mission for special souls?  

I have no idea.  I do know that when I was not even four years old, I witnessed a robin’s egg fall from a nest, perched precariously in the high branches of our dogwood tree.  The egg smashed to the ground and revealed the tiny body of a baby bird bathed in a protective yolk.  I ran stumbling and crying to my mother, screaming for her to bring a spoon to scoop up the  “baby”.  I thought that my Mother who always made things right and the bad and the booboos disappear could bring this baby bird back to life.  She couldn’t but she buried the “baby” replete with a gentle prayer. I was inconsolable.  I was not even four years old!My mother told that story to me and others, repeatedly  throughout our many years together; in fact, until she died.  In life and in spirit, my Mother Edith and my Dad Frank,  never wanted me to avert my “spellbound” attention from the suffering in this world and I never will. 

Thank you Mom and thank you Dad but why?


Entry filed under: HUMANITY, MARIJO.


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