In which We Bear Witness to the Great Suffering of the Raccoon
In the roadway this evening was a hit and dying (dead?) raccoon.
This is why I don't like the drive - for fear of seeing, or causing, such a scene. Earlier today I'd been thinking about sacrifice and suffering, and how hard it is to do when direct orders come from all around to avoid any such of the sort. Buy now don't wait run don't walk limited time only. And it's really really easy to avoid. Suffering will get you, sometimes, what with the tenuous hold that everything has on existence, the dark will come up and grab occasionally. But sacrifice, hell.
I've thought, for months now, about how unthinkable it would be to stop driving. Anywhere. First off, it would completely suck, for I drive places a lot - to be alone in public, to see people I love. To get many pounds of groceries about a third of a mile. Secondly, though, it would be regarded as totally fucking insane. Who does that? Who living anywhere other than New York City does that? Nobody.
I have feelings about gas consumption and the environmental and political issues surrounding that, but I have compulsions about animals dying because I'm driving a car. That's a tacit but accepted inevitability about driving: you might kill something, and the risk of killing something is outweighed by the necessity of going longer distances than it's possible to walk or bike. Everybody who drives anywhere believes that.
Faced with a twitching raccoon body, alone in the middle of a busy street, I can't bring myself to believe that. I can almost bring myself to believe in a God to pray to ("Beloved God, please relieve the suffering of this raccoon") but I can't believe that this is worth the cost.
But what can you do? What can you really do about it? You can pray to an uncaring universe and believe for a bit that you can go be with the raccoon; it suffers, but I am there with it, witnessing its suffering and being sorry; maybe that will help.
Imagining this particular raccoon's life: Did she visit certain trash cans having learned to expect things she liked? Where was she heading? What do her raccoon companions think, now that she's gone?
Empathy is nothing but a chain of logic; you ask, what is the difference between this animal and my dog? What is the difference between this animal and me?
This is why I don't like the drive - for fear of seeing, or causing, such a scene. Earlier today I'd been thinking about sacrifice and suffering, and how hard it is to do when direct orders come from all around to avoid any such of the sort. Buy now don't wait run don't walk limited time only. And it's really really easy to avoid. Suffering will get you, sometimes, what with the tenuous hold that everything has on existence, the dark will come up and grab occasionally. But sacrifice, hell.
I've thought, for months now, about how unthinkable it would be to stop driving. Anywhere. First off, it would completely suck, for I drive places a lot - to be alone in public, to see people I love. To get many pounds of groceries about a third of a mile. Secondly, though, it would be regarded as totally fucking insane. Who does that? Who living anywhere other than New York City does that? Nobody.
I have feelings about gas consumption and the environmental and political issues surrounding that, but I have compulsions about animals dying because I'm driving a car. That's a tacit but accepted inevitability about driving: you might kill something, and the risk of killing something is outweighed by the necessity of going longer distances than it's possible to walk or bike. Everybody who drives anywhere believes that.
Faced with a twitching raccoon body, alone in the middle of a busy street, I can't bring myself to believe that. I can almost bring myself to believe in a God to pray to ("Beloved God, please relieve the suffering of this raccoon") but I can't believe that this is worth the cost.
But what can you do? What can you really do about it? You can pray to an uncaring universe and believe for a bit that you can go be with the raccoon; it suffers, but I am there with it, witnessing its suffering and being sorry; maybe that will help.
Imagining this particular raccoon's life: Did she visit certain trash cans having learned to expect things she liked? Where was she heading? What do her raccoon companions think, now that she's gone?
Empathy is nothing but a chain of logic; you ask, what is the difference between this animal and my dog? What is the difference between this animal and me?
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