Remembrance of Laughing with Animals
Miriam Miriam
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
On Christmas Eve the animals talk. Supposedly the donkeys by the manger spoke first. As a child I pictured the Star of Bethlehem electrocuting them in a brilliant flash of light. I laughed then. (I laugh now!) The moment their brays became prayers must have been funny. Maybe Baby Jesus smiled. I smiled in the church at midnight, looking at the priest and the altar boys marching down the aisle, but imagining my soft, potato-shaped face buried in the bristly fleece of a Levantine donkey who might give a more interesting sermon.
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
The drive home was dark and clear – California at its best. Reflecting on the untruth of my grandfather’s insistence that the animals talk on Christmas Eve, I spotted a fox on the side of the road. It stood on the shoulder with a look on its face that was no smarter than a deer’s in the same situation. The car followed the curves through the valley of burnt grass trying to turn green. “I saw a fox!” I exclaimed, but everyone was asleep, except for the driver, who pretended he was asleep so he wouldn’t have to answer me. I was raised to be quiet, but if I had thought to be loud, I would have demanded we stop so I could talk to that fox.
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
Now Thursdays I kill crab, so I am doing killing every week. Chef taught me to lift the crabs by their backsides so as not to get pinched. I wonder what it must feel like to get pinched, and I wonder this as I watch them latch onto each other at the end of their lives at the bottom of a musty, plastic container with a peeling sticker on the side that reads: Jack’s winter coats. When I carry them to the pot, they wrap their backmost legs around my wrist. Before I put them in the water the chef tells me to say thank you, individually, to each crab. I was never made to say grace, but this is similar. I wonder if crabs talk to each other, and if they do, I wonder if they speak a language in which thank you can sometimes double as I’m sorry. In the container, they rip each other’s arms off. I wonder if they have a word for friendly fire when they spend their whole lives in the water.
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
I always wanted a beagle. Then I wanted a French bulldog. Then I wanted a Boston terrier. Then I wanted a pit bull. Then I wanted a chihuahua. Then I wanted a Borzoi. Then I wanted a Greyhound. Then I wanted a husky. Then I wanted a Great Pyrenees. Then I wanted a Frenchie again. Then a beagle again. Then a chihuahua. Then I didn’t care what it was, I just hoped it would talk a lot and make weird noises!
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
Pets excite me wildly. To live so closely alongside an animal in a house intended for humans cracks me up. My cat is a miracle. She’s brown and tan and black and some of her toes are baby pink and others are matte black. I talk to her constantly, jovially asking her questions and fanatically cheering on her absurd behaviours. She meows back, and her responses nearly paralyse me with happiness. I both talk to my pet and talk as my pet, looking at her young and inquisitive eyes, but imagining her babyish voice speaking wisdom beyond human knowledge. I worship her. She has no idea, and I love her even more for her ignorance. It’s nice to coo at a tiny creature who trusts you unconditionally.
A donkey a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken a fox a crab a dog a cat a chicken.
Chickens surprise me. The ones I remember were healthy and friendly. Their feathers – orange, plush and silky. Their beaks – yellow, dull but pretty. Their feet – the foundation of a beautiful haunted house. They were gentle and patient with my grabby hands. When I learned chickens were evolved lizards, I just about couldn’t take it. In conversation with a chicken, I would ask it about lizards. Something like: Remember when? BAGAWK!
Miriam Miriam is a queer cook and writer. She cooks at Local Tide in Seattle, WA and tutors university students in writing. Her writing has appeared in Kitchen Table Magazine. She is on Instagram @mirizhinka.
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