Ganymeder

“I just want my chocolate.” That’s what the customer told me when I rang him up. I’m in the habit of making chit chat when I process someone’s purchase. If I notice they’re buying something that I’ve tried before, I’ll comment, or if I see lots of birthday things coming down the belt I’ll ask about their kids. Really, I’m just trying to be friendly and helpful. But that remark really pissed me off.

The callous and selfish disregard for other creatures made by this statement isn’t immediately apparent, but it’s there. No, I’m not talking about the health effects of consuming too much chocolate. I’m talking about Human Slavery.

Slavery. Today. Right now. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not a thing of the past. Most people consuming chocolate today aren’t aware of their active participation and support of this modern day evil. But that’s not the worst part. So many people don’t want to know.

Most people that I know work hard. They get up every day, kiss their kids and send them off to school. They do their best to provide for their families, pay their bills, and still have a life. Most people want to believe they live ethically. They don’t want to hear that when they give their child a treat they’re actually enslaving other children. Families are separated. Suffering and death are the direct result of buying slave chocolate.

Many people have heard of blood diamonds. Not as many have heard of slave chocolate. The majority of the world’s chocolate comes from the Ivory Coast where often children are abducted to work on Cocoa farms. The profits are used to fund both sides of a Civil war between the government and rebels. There are disappearances, torture, and political assassinations. The leading chocolate companies get most of their cocoa from this area.

When I first learned that slavery didn’t die with the Cross Atlantic slave trade I was shocked. Why didn’t more people know about this? The popular press rarely, if ever, even acknowledges this atrocity exists. If it’s mentioned at all, it’s as the more polite euphamism “Human trafficking.” Let’s call a spade a spade. Slavery exists. Human beings are bought, sold, coerced, beaten, threatened, forced to work against their will in sometimes unspeakable conditions, and their only hope is escape or death.

Sometimes the problem seems overwhelming. Slavery is illegal worldwide, and yet it flourishes even more than it did before. There are more slaves today, 27 million worldwide, that any other point in human history. The challenge ahead isn’t to convince people that slavery is wrong but that slavery exists.

As I go about my life, I have to work to pay my bills and support my family too. The retail store I work at carries items that I’m not sure were obtained ethically. Most retailers carry items of questionable ethical origin. But at least fair trade and organic chocolate and cocoa products are safe for now. Fair trade is obvious, and organic guarrantees a certain amount of transparency. If I’m unsure of a label, I can call the manufacturer and find out. If they source slave chocolate, at the very least I can inform them of something they might not have been aware of.

Fair trade and organic chocolate carries a greater price tag than slave chocolate. But at least that price is paid by me and not the suffering of some innocent just to satisfy my sweet tooth. If the cost is too expensive, there are plenty of alternatives. Give out toys instead of candy for Halloween. Eat vanilla cookies or another type of candy that doesn’t use slave chocolate. Or eat healthier and give up candy. It’s not that high a price to pay.

Those were my thoughts when I noticed my customer was purchasing a gourmet dark chocolate bar. He was willing to pay a higher price for what he wanted. So I mentioned to him that if he bought “The Endangered Species” dark chocolate, it was slave free. “Most people don’t realize that most chocolate comes from the Ivory Coast and supports slavery,” I said and smiled at him. He looked back at me, and I got the impression he believed me.

“I just want my chocolate.”

*originally written 2008-02-27

I have recently decided to consolidate my writing by closing my account at another writing site and putting my fiction and essays on a page attached to this blog. If you would like to check it out, the Ganymeder’s Writing page link is located to the right just below the Library thing widget and just above the search engine.

I am still in the process of uploading my work onto the new page. I am trying to resolve the differences in spacing from my Office documents to my WordPress blog. So far I have managed to finish transferring my complete novel along with some short stories, but I have yet to add the essays and poems. Thank you for your patience.

Raised to eat meat and potatoes every day of my life, I never questioned the place that humans had above animals in the world. That was simply the way things were. No one, at least no one decent, wants to cause them suffering, but sometimes it’s necessary for the greater good. At least that’s what I’d always been taught and believed.

Of course, it’s wrong to cause unnecessary suffering for frivolous things like fur coats, a tender cut of veal, or testing a new shampoo. Those things could be got around. Those things were easily bypassed, and there were ways to test product safety that weren’t cruel. But things like organ transplants, medical research, and human safety were different matters in my opinion. Not even in the same class.

“What about Nazis?” my husband asked. “Didn’t they do experiments on the Jews in order to find cures to things like cancer?”

“That’s different,” I answered. “They didn’t have any right to do those things. They didn’t have the right to take away the rights of others.”

“Do we?” he asked.

**

Not long after that conversation, I started following a story on tv about Scarlett the cat. The calico was found outside a burning building by a kind hearted fireman. She laid on the ground, severely burned, poisoned by smoke.

Kittens, only a few weeks old, suffered nearby from smoke inhalation. They were too young to have escaped on their own. The mother cat must have carried her precious burdens out of the blazing inferno. Two of them were placed across the street, and three more were found outside the garage.

Each time she carried a kitten out, she set it down safely and walked back into the blaze for another. Five trips in searing heat burned the pads of her feet, singed her fur, and sealed her eyes. But she kept going back until every one of her children were safe. Then she laid down to die.

She did not die, thanks in part to the fireman who saved her. He brought her and her kittens to an Animal Hospital where they were well cared for. After much care and commitment from veterinary staff and volunteers, the newly dubbed “Scarlett” became a national celebrity. One kitten had been lost, but four young lives were saved by a loving mother’s courage and commitment.

**

Following my same pattern, I continued my normal lifestyle and routine. I ate what I wanted. I wore what I wanted. If I could afford it, I bought whatever I desired. I was working two jobs, helping my husband get through school. I worked hard and deserved it, right?

That’s what I told myself as I looked at the fried chicken I bought for dinner. KFC had always been my favorite treat, the crispy crunch of the skin as I pulled it off the meat. I was really going to enjoy this meal. As soon as I bit into the meat, a vision of Scarlett – singed and smoking – flashed before me. The greasy taste in my mouth repulsed me, and I spit it out quickly. I looked at what I was eating. A chicken’s leg. With crispy skin. How could I possibly admire one animal’s courage and commitment while eating another?

My rationalizations continued for a few weeks longer. Different animals have different qualities, which meant it was okay to treat some different from others. Of course, chickens were different from cats. Wasn’t that obvious? It’s not inherently cruel to eat to live. Lions eat other animals, and we don’t call them cruel. But lions have no choice, do they? They’re carnivores. Humans are not.

It’s not immoral to eat meat. It’s not. It’s a necessary part of most people’s diet, isn’t it? That’s what I told myself again and again. I was afraid to face the truth. I was afraid to change and be different. But every time I ate a piece of meat, I would see Scarlett’s face staring at me and spit it out.

After about a month, I stopped. Not from a deep moral commitment, but I simply couldn’t take the guilt. I couldn’t eat the bodies of other animals anymore. Other creatures had interests like mine; we shared much in common. Different species other than humanity showed love and compassion, empathy and courage. I couldn’t continue to take their lives for the sake of my palate. The frivolity of my diet hit me like a brick. The words of Plutarch, uttered so many years ago, rang true. “But for the sake of some little mouthful of flesh we deprive a soul of the sun and light, and of that proportion of life and time it had been born into the world to enjoy.”

**

Once my diet no longer included the bodies of animals, my self imposed blinders lifted. When I took a shower with my favorite soap, I was horrified to realize, mid rinse, that I was rubbing fat from the bodies of slaughtered animals onto my body. I couldn’t wait to replace my leather shoes, because I was literally walking on the skin of other creatures. But I consumed the other products of their bodies, eggs and dairy, without guilt. Since they were simply natural biological functions, I felt little qualm about eating them.

Later on, I discovered that I unwittingly still participated in the killing of animals by eating their secretions. Mother cows spent almost their entire short lifetime giving birth to babies they’d never raise. Their calves were either slaughtered for veal or became dairy cows themselves. When they could no longer give mother’s milk to the humans who stole their calves, they were shipped to slaughter. Every time I drank milk, I separated a mother from her child. Every time I used cheese, I was eating a veal calf. I had to stop.

Eggs were a different matter. A chicken didn’t need to be fertilized to produce eggs. They were simply the natural cycle of a chicken ovulating. Perhaps the idea of consuming that was a little unappetizing, but certainly there was nothing immoral about it. Then I learned that half of the chicks produced in hatcheries, males, are killed because they aren’t profitable. Obviously, males don’t lay eggs.

Even if the laying hens were treated humanely, buying eggs still supported an industry that killed half the chicks that were hatched. And laying hens did not die peacefully in their nests either.

Within half a year, my entire focus had changed. I thought about what I bought, what I ate, what I watched on tv. I stopped supporting cruelty through willful ignorance, but started actively becoming more harmless in my daily life. I took more time to make sure the small things I did every day helped make the world a better place, even if only by choosing an Endangered Species Chocolate bar instead of Hershey’s. I finally opened my eyes, not only to the cruelty of our daily arrogance over other creatures, but to the beauty and liberation that I could change the world for the better. Simply by living my values.

And it all started with a cat.

Thanks, Scarlett.

**

Essay (written for contest entry)

02-26-08

Road through the Poconos, convenience store

sells meat from dead cows, The stench fills the room

chips and soda next to secretions and gore

stolen from mothers, a belly their tomb

On the road driving to an oasis

kindness in our flesh based society

compassion for all their only basis

Rights for the weak not only the mighty

A farm picnic free of slaughterhouse death

Rub a pigs belly and call him by name

Cows nuzzle their calves and feel their warm breath

Care for their babies. In that we’re the same.

Contrast our world to this one peaceful Farm

Be kind. Go vegan. Do others no harm

yellow school bus doors opened. smiling face
beamed brighter than the flowered sunlight seekers
golden petals turned toward the light’s embrace
little boy feet in spiderman sneakers
arms opened wide for a tackling hug
stories of school, rumpled hair on his head
sweet tooth satisfied, homework, outdoor play
a cherry cola with ice in a mug
dinner. teeth brushed. a bedtime story read.
small fingers round my neck. So ends the day.

***
a 10-line stanza of iambic verse using an ababcdecde rhyme scheme.
written on Tuesday, 4/29/08.

I will never be known by any name.
I will never know a loving mother.
I will be never eat, sleep or play a game.
My fate will be shared by every brother.

I break through my shell to look at the world.
Hands grab me roughly, and cast me aside,
Into the grinding machine I am hurled.
No one takes notice of me, and I die.

My masculinity was made a crime
punishable by a cruel, heartless death.
Never would I lay eggs or make a dime,
so never could I take another breath.

In trash I lie. No profit could I give.
Never was I given the chance to live.
2008-07-15 ganymeder

Peppermint soap, Peppermint soap
vegan addiction allows me to cope
refreshingly cool
like a dip in the pool
bathing suit optional, I hope!

Peppermint soap, Peppermint soap
better by far than soap on a rope
lavender paper
wrapping, It’s safer
hemp use more legal than dope!

Peppermint soap, Peppermint soap
Dr. Bronner has given us hope
His genius unsung
He’s our number one
Kiss his ring just like the Pope!

Poking through patches of stinging nettles

they’re widely considered only a weed.

golden sunlight captured in bright petals

whose faces follow Apollo’s swift steed,
Who can look on a field of wildflowers

and appreciate their radiant hue,

Thank Mother Nature with all her powers,

and not be thankful for dandelions too?

As heralds of Spring, they start first to grow

Patterns of sunlight that litter the ground

Visions of loveliness, gardener’s foe

in every green field their beauty abounds
Even in death, their white wings grant wishes

born on a breeze like laughter and kisses.
*written on 4/30/08.

June 15, 2008.

Bernie had trouble hopping. It wasn’t that he didn’t try. If hopping distance was measured by effort, Bernie would hop to the moon. But alas! Bernie was missing one of his back legs. He never let this get him down though.. Bernie lived a lovely, happy life, except for the occasional painful memory,.

The image of the cat still made him seethe with rage. Bernie wasn’t in the habit of holding grudges. He didn’t resent the cat for being a cat. He knew they were predatory animals, but what he did resent was the feline’s sadistic glee in toying with him. It was enough to drive a less thoughtful cricket over the edge.

The cup of his life was never half empty but filled to the brim with his joy of living. His disability prevented him from hopping as high as other crickets, but they were a little too flighty for his taste anyway. He became friends with more “down to earth” animals.

While other crickets like Sid, Tom, and Joe expended all their effort in hopping contests, Bernie thought about things. He thought about how to make the world a better place. He thought about the colors of the sky and the grass. He thought about what kind of jokes he could tell, because he knew the value of laughter.

Sometimes he liked to sit in his garden and wonder at the world outside its borders. He could see a road, but he never ventured beyond his own yard. He saw other animals travel along its path and occasionally cross the street. The groundhogs seemed particularly daring and would dart across regardless of traffic. He wondered why they did that.

At home, he tried to hop as hard, maybe even harder, than the other crickets. But he didn’t let his mind fly away with his legs and his body. He was more firmly grounded, though his dreams were just as high.

He rarely chirped, though the other crickets chirped continually – either to impress the lady crickets or to get rid of the competition. The males found each other’s chirps rather irritating. Bernie’s infirmity had not the slightest effect on his chirping. To put it simply, he rarely felt the need. On those occasions when the mood overcame him, he took his time, paid attention to the details, and created the most beautiful music. He always felt that anything worth doing was worth doing well, and he applied this philosophy to every aspect of his life.

One day, Bernie looked up and beheld the most beautiful lady cricket he’d ever seen. She looked at him through the ground level window of the house he lived near. The ebony sheen of her exoskeleton enchanted him. Many times he chirped to her through the glass, but she never responded. Her glassy eyes never moved. She never attempted to reach him. However, she never moved away either, and in Bernie’s book that counted for something.

How could he possibly reach this angelic creature, this vision of loveliness? Surely a little glass couldn’t keep them apart. He didn’t know the stuff in the window was glass, of course. In fact, he didn’t know the window was called a window. All he knew was that an obstacle lay between him and his beloved, and it must be overcome.

So, one day, when the canine of the house had his human open the door for him, Bernie snuck in. It wasn’t too hard. The human female patiently stood in the doorway, awaiting further instructions while the pooch marked his territory. While she watched her master sniffing a wonderfully scented weed, Bernie hopped into the house.

The entryway stairs led either to the upper level or the basement area. Bernie choose to go down because 1. gravity, and 2. because he guessed (correctly) that the window of his darling lay in that direction.

The carpet pulled at his legs, increasing his difficulty, but eventually the little Romeo triumphantly stood on the lower floor. He chirped, but the object of his affection didn’t reveal herself. Gazing around the room, he noticed a large window with a view of the lovely weed garden where he lived. From the height of the revealed foliage, he guessed the window was ground level, despite it being very high from his vantage point.

Suddenly he felt his heart almost stop beating, and then his pulse quickened. Could that be HER shadow silhouetted against the backdrop of greenery? He called out his song to her, tentatively, afraid of a rebuff now that she was so close.

She never flinched.

Perhaps it wasn’t her after all? Or maybe she was just waiting to see if he would come to her. This warranted a closer look.

Bernie inspected his surroundings. Shabby furniture abounded in the room, all facing a cabinet topped by a large rectangular t.v with metal antennae. Various books, movies, and games lay strewn about the room in piles of varying sizes. Mentally, he mapped out his terrain.

A large canine dozed near the pile of discarded videos he planned to use as his launching point. The miniature pincher (hardly large to humans, but by cricket standards enormous), curled up in a ball, snored softly as his chest pumped up and down with each breath. Emboldened by his passion, the little cricket waited for the dog to breathe in before leaping on the canine’s expanded chest. He hopped onto the nearest pile of flotsam before propelling himself onto the cabinet. Luckily, another pile of empty cases on the cabinet gave him the height he needed to fling himself to the top of the television where he could finally get a good view of his Juliet.

But soft! What light through yonder window broke his heart. For his love moved not a muscle, not an atom, did not deign to even turn toward him. Upon his final leap, the one to the windowsill, he finally learned the truth. She was incapable of returning his affection.

What had seemed so perfect about her earlier revealed her ultimate flaw. The stamp on her belly, though he couldn’t read the words, confirmed his suspicions.

“Made in China”

Quite taken back by his discovery, he missed his footing and fell off the ledge. Luckily, something soft broke his fall. Unluckily, it turned out to be the short fur of the little dog.

Now Wilbur normally slept through pretty much anything. In his youth, he awoke at the slightest noise and delighted in chasing anyone with two or more legs provided they were smaller than he. However, age had softened his hunting instinct, deadened his hearing, and left him with an increasing fondness for slumber. He didn’t appreciate having his nap interrupted.

The little dog’s head turned to reproach Bernie with a baleful eye.

“You know you’re not fooling anybody, right?” Wilbur asked.

“What!” replied Bernie.

“I know you’re alive. Just freezing like that doesn’t fool me, you know…”

“Oh.” Bernie turned slightly. He hadn’t realized he had frozen.

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I wasn’t either. It’s been at least a few weeks…” replied Bernie.

Wilbur’s ears perked up with this latest announcement. “Really?”

Bernie then started relating to his companion the intricacies of cricket life and culture.

“That’s…wow. You only live for eight weeks? That’s it? I was still a puppy at eight weeks!” Wilbur continued to muse over the flood of information Bernie supplied him.

After several minutes of spewing fact and fantasy, anything to keep this incredibly huge creature occupied, Bernie couldn’t help noticing something.

Wilbur hadn’t displayed the slightest interest in eating him.

After a few more minutes of conversation, Wilbur exhibited signs of sleepiness. His huge yawn, displaying his large and rather menacing looking teeth, intimidated Bernie. The little cricket tried to continue the small talk, anxious to avoid seeing those teeth more closely.

After another minute or so of Bernie’s stammering, Wilbur interrupted him.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude,” the pincher began, “but if you wouldn’t mind…”

Bernie looked up from the middle of his treatise on the differences between crickets and grasshoppers. His eyes widened with fear.

“Well, what I was going to say was that if you don’t mind, I’d like to…” Wilbur continued.

Bernie just stared.

“What’s wrong?” asked the dog.

“I mind!” said Bernie, suddenly finding his voice.

“What?”

“I mind!” cried Bernie again, only louder.

“You mind if I take a nap?”

“I mind!” continued Bernie, who had worked himself into such a frenzy by this time that he failed to hear what Wilbur said. “I don’t want to be your snack! Besides, you wouldn’t like me! My exoskeleton might…. uh… get stuck in your teeth!”

Wilbur just looked at him for a second, before remarking with severe distaste, “Ewwwww! I said NAP, not SNACK.”

“Huh?”

“Listen, little buddy. Do you mind if I call you that?”

Bernie shook himself “no.”

“Listen, I only eat my puppy food! I don’t eat animals. What do you take me for? Some kind of cat?!!!” He spat out the last syllable as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. He glanced back at a scar on his thigh.

“Sooo… you mean you won’t eat me?” Bernie was almost afraid to hope.

“Nope.”

“Ever?”

“Yup. Ever.”

Bernie, still unable to believe his good luck, continued, “You promise?”

Wilbur was visibly annoyed. “I said it, didn’t I?”

Bernie nodded.

“Then its a promise. Every word that comes out of my mouth is a promise. I always do what I say.”

Bernie looked down at his feet and twirled one of his antennae. “Well, I guess…” He looked up. “I’m sorry if I insulted you.”

“Hey, no problem. Simple misunderstanding, right? But about that nap, I’m not as young as I used to be. ”

“Oh, okay. I’ll leave you alone. I just…uh…”

“What?”

“I don’t know how I’m going to get back up those,” Bernie gestured towards the stairs looming forbiddingly in the distance.

Wilbur thought he understood. “Well, do you have to go right now?”

“I thought you needed a nap?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to leave. Just please be quiet.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Wilbur continued. “If you want you can sleep right there on my back. I don’t mind. I actually kind of like having company.”

Bernie wasn’t sure HE wanted to stay that close, despite Wilbur’s reassurances, but he didn’t want to offend his new companion. He walked around a few times to make a comfortable spot, and then he settled into the warm fur of the dog’s shoulder. Within a minute, both were sleeping soundly.

Bernie awoke from his nap, refreshed and relaxed. Until he realized where he was. Then he was refreshed but nervous.

His new friend seemed to be less threatening in the darkness though. Maybe it was that Wilbur’s fur made such a luscious blanket to snuggle in. Maybe it was the lulling rhythm of the dog’s soft snores. It might even have been the fact that Bernie couldn’t make out his teeth in the dark.

It didn’t matter. The point was that Bernie felt a little more comfortable in Wilbur’s company. He wasn’t completely at ease, but he did feel less nervous.

As the days went by, he lost his inhibitions in the light of Wilbur’s hospitality. The little dog, upon waking, extended his invitation for Bernie to stay. Hours became days. Days became weeks. It wasn’t long before the two were fast friends.

But the life of a cricket is a short one, and soon Bernie felt the need to sow his wild oats. Since its pretty hard to sow oats or any grasses in the carpet of the basement floor, Wilbur offered to help him out. Quite literally.

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company,” said Bernie, getting ready to grab on to the little dog’s leg.

“I know that,” said Wilbur.

“‘Cause, you know, you’re my best friend…,” continued Bernie.

“I know,” answered Wilbur, once again.

“It’s just that I’m not getting any younger, you know,” Bernie responded.

“You’re telling me?” Wilbur looked down at his legs, spotted with gray fur.

“You know, before I know it, I’ll be six weeks old and wondering where my life went!”

“This is about that lady cricket thing, isn’t it?” asked Wilbur.

Bernie looked bashful. “Well, as great as being here is, I’d like to have a family. You know…”

There was an awkward silence.

“Do you need anything else before I go?” asked Bernie.

Wilbur thought for a moment. “No, I think we’ve covered everything. Basic survival skills and…. oh, wait! I know!”

“What?”

“Um…,” Wilbur hesitated. The little dog stood a moment, unsure what to say. He knew it was time for his little friend to go, but he wanted to prolong the moment. What could he possibly ask for, other than for him to stay?

“Well,” he stammered.

Bernie waited.

“Well,” he said again.

Bernie was all ears. (Well, he only had ears on his knees, but still – you get the point.) He listened attentively.

“???”

“Ummmm,” said Bernie. “Did you forget what you were going to say?”

“Uh, no, not really,” said Wilbur, gathering his thoughts. The memory of a conversation between his humans started to surface, and he snatched at it like a life preserver.

He drew in his breath. “Okay, remember I was telling you about the groundhogs? How they run in front of cars?”

Bernie nodded.

“Well,” said Wilbur, who always wanted what was best for his friends, human and non. “Well,” he said again. “My humans were worried about the groundhogs, how they keep running in front of cars.” He swallowed. “They said its almost like they’re trying to get themselves killed!”

Bernie gave this some consideration. He remembered the groundhogs he’d seen before and said, “I could see that. But what can I do about it?”

“Well,” said Wilbur, yet again. “Could you maybe just tell them not to do that?”

“What makes you think they’d listen to me? I’m just a cricket!”

Wilbur looked at Bernie in disbelief. “Now you know that isn’t true.”

“It isn’t?”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” said Wilbur simply. “And you have more about you than meets the eye. You got me to listen, didn’t you?”

Bernie just looked at him.

Wilbur continued, “And I can hardly hear a word! But look at us now.”

Bernie looked.

“I didn’t mean literally.”

“Oh,” said Bernie and looked at his foot instead.

“I mean, I would listen to you, and if I would then I’m sure you can get the groundhogs to listen too.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Uh… okay.”

Another awkward silence ensued.

“Well, I guess its time to call my human,” said Wilbur. There was no reason to put it off any longer. He looked a little sad.

Bernie hopped under his belly and grabbed onto the back of his leg.

Wilbur let out a howl, went up the stairs and stood in front of the door, the little black hitchhiker clinging to his leg the whole time.
After being indoors for so long, the summer sun was surprisingly warm. Bernie basked in the glow a moment, before saying a final goodbye to his canine companion and hopping off to the beginnings of his new life in the wide world.

The wonderful weed garden that had been his home such a long time ago (2 ½ weeks is nearly an eternity for a cricket) sparkled with the morning dew. The black eyed susans, tiger lilies, and few lingering dandelions brightly beckoned him. Nope. He wouldn’t fall for the garden’s charms a second time. Just look where it had led him.

Now that he thought about it, it had led him precisely where he wanted to be, though he didn’t know he wanted it at the time. True, he had been disappointed in love, but his efforts were rewarded with a true friend. He hoped to see Wilbur again when he had a family.

But to do that, he needed to expand his horizons. Not content to simply roam the boundaries of his former home, he set his sights on the neighbor’s yard. Unlike the heedless groundhogs, Bernie looked both ways before crossing the street. Then he embarked on his new life in a whole new world.
The white cat surveyed her kingdom. The neatly trimmed grass crunched softly beneath her paws as she made her way towards the house, her royal throne, the seat of her power. Inside, multiple humans lived to wait on her every need. She slept on a velvet cushion. She ate from porcelain dishes. She owned her very own ball of yarn. Truly, she was mistress of her domain.

A large white house dominated her meticulously manicured yard. On the porch, a large glass tank held a tarantula. The cat leaned against the tank and batted at the spider’s head a few times, taunting him. She enjoyed playing with her subjects.

The white cat’s green eyes caught a flicker of movement crossing the street. Who on earth would dare come to MY terrain?, she thought. Not another stupid groundhog! She couldn’t even enjoy taunting them, since half the time they didn’t make it across the road.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. Too small for a groundhog, even one of the babies, she thought. Then she spotted him. A cricket!

Bernie hopped across the grass towards the house, oblivious of danger.

The cat’s tail flicked savagely in irritation. She’d teach that nobody who ruled this place. She crouched low, tensed her muscles and waited for the small trespasser to come just a little closer.

Bernie hopped a little closer.

“Poooooofy!” called a woman, as she opened the door. She looked down and picked up the cat, cradling her close to her chest. “Poofy! Time to come in, sweetheart! It’s dinnertime!” The door shut on the two.

Bernie paused, the woman’s fuss calling his attention to a threat he had failed to notice before. A familiar threat. A Cat.

Not just any cat. THE. CAT. His mutilator. He fumed, seethed, and quaked all at once.

However, having called his attention to the danger, she also removed it. His nemesis was safely stowed inside the building. For now. But for how long? Should he turn back?

After a few minutes, the door opened again. The lone woman brought out a small clear box filled with crickets. They scurried in fear when she put the container next to the tank. “Ugh, I hate this part,” she muttered.

The tarantula, in his glass prison, crawled towards the side closest to his prey.

Bernie hopped towards the house. Crickets in trouble!

“Oh, drat,” said the woman, ” I forgot…” She went back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Bernie hopped up to the plastic box.

“Help us! Quick!” cried the crickets.

“Don’t worry!” Bernie answered. “I’ll get you out!” He wondered silently how he would do this, but said nothing more. He looked around for something to tip the box over with.

Propped against the wall, a small corn broom caught his attention. The woman had put it there earlier, and it leaned at an odd angle. If only I could tip that, Bernie thought. He doubted his small frame carried enough force to move the broom.

He thought of Wilbur, but the little dog was all the way in the other yard. Even if he could get his friend to come over, by the time he got back it would be too late. His fellow insects would be spider food. He looked up at the front window.

Poofy stared down at him, tail flicking, severely displeased.

Inspiration struck Bernie like a bolt from the blue.

“Awww, look at the big bad pussy cat! You’re not so tough now, are you?”

“What are you DOING?” cried a lady cricket from inside the box. “This is no time for crazy talk! Get us out of here!”

The rest of the crickets said nothing. They were too busy panicking. Bernie recognized three of the crickets from his former life in the weed garden. The box lid rendered Sid, Tom, and Joe’s hopping to no avail. They stared at Bernie, little suspecting his ingenuity, and thought their number was up.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan!” Bernie whispered to the lady cricket and then continued taunting the cat. “What did I hear your name was? Poofy? Puffy? Pity? You’ll never get me out here! Na na nana Naaaa!”

Another flick of Poofy’s tail conveyed her agitation.

The lady cricket gazed hopefully at Bernie.

Sid, Tom, and Joe hopped futilely against the box lid. If they couldn’t escape with all eighteen of their legs, what hope did Bernie have with only five?

Bernie noticed that inside the house the woman’s form passed by the window. “Okay, Harry, just let me feed the spider first,” she called, opening the door.

Bernie made a rather obnoxious gesture to Poofy.

That. Is. IT!, thought the cat, lunging out the door and nearly knocking the woman off her feet.

“What the…?” the human called out.

Bernie, on top of the cricket box, told the crickets, “Get ready…”

Poofy pounced towards Bernie, knocking over the box of crickets. The lid went flying to the side, and the small prisoners scattered in all directions, quickly heading for the nearest hiding places in the garden or crevices of the house. The furious feline lost Bernie in the shuffle and, remarkably, did not catch a single insect.

The woman, knocked off balance, overcompensated in the opposite direction and ended up kicking the glass aquarium. It tipped over. The tarantula, faced with the choice of chasing crickets or making a dash for freedom, chose the latter and scurried as fast as his eight legs could carry him.

In a chink of the wall, Bernie hid with the lady cricket that had spoken to him earlier. “See, I told you I’d get you out!”

“Yeah,” she replied. “But now there’s an angry cat, a huge hairy spider, and a clumsy woman all out to get us.”

“At least you have a chance now. It’s better than just being fed to a spider, isn’t it?” replied Bernie. He was a little annoyed that she wasn’t more grateful.

“Good point,” she conceded. “What do we do now?”

Good point, thought Bernie. I have no idea.

From his yard, Wilbur saw the commotion. His eyesight and hearing weren’t what they used to be, but even he could tell something big was up across the street! He wondered briefly if he should investigate. His human might get irritated if he left the yard, but he could always pacify her later.

Then he heard the screeching of the… cat? It sounded just like… Oh, that did it! Wilbur was off like a shot, running towards his hated foe. Overwhelming righteous indignation singed his mind with thoughts of vengeance. He heard nothing. Not the calls of his human. Not the fury of the indignant feline. Only the call for battle rang in his mind.

Crossing the street as fast as his little legs could carry him, images flashed across his consciousness. The hated cat, unprovoked, once again left her claw embedded deep in his flesh. The memory stung like a fresh wound. He would teach the cat, THAT cat, a lesson!

The newly escaped (but as yet unfed) spider scurried up and found a lovely hiding place. The flower box attached to the porch window provided a perfect vantage point to watch the festivities.

In the grass across the street, a groundhog paused to watch the commotion.

Wilbur continued approaching the enemy.

The woman sidestepped crickets in a dreadful pantomime of dance.

The cat’s attention was completely absorbed by the fleeing crickets.

The tarantula, from his hiding place, noticed he had a rather tempting view of the cat’s head.

Wilbur approached at full speed.

For the first time, the tarantula observed the little dog pounding toward the house with righteous fury. He noted the dog’s meager size compared to the feline’s ample girth. Uh oh, he thought.

The woman continued dancing.

Wilbur, upon reaching the porch, saw crickets everywhere. Oh no! What’s that cat done to my little buddy?, he thought. He didn’t immediately see Bernie, but his loyalty to his friend momentarily eclipsed his rage.

He sniffed around the cement floor of the porch, looking for Bernie. As he neared the wall, Bernie leaned out of a crevice and made his presence known.

The tarantula continued to watch, the glimmer of an idea sparking in his mind.

Wilbur, determined to help his friend escape, turned towards Poofy. He would have to act quickly; his human was already running across the street to stop him.

The cat finally noticed Wilbur. She stopped batting at crickets, crouched down, and readied herself to pounce.

The spider tensed. Well, why not?, he thought. That little dog needs my help, and besides…. I CAN’T STAND THAT CAT.

Wilbur lunged for the cat. At the same moment, Harry Spider, filled with dreams of glory, dropped down onto Poofy’s head.

“MeeoowwwrrrrRRAAAAARRGGGHHHHH!!!, screamed Poofy, batting at the spider covering her eyes. Wilbur bit her back leg, growling furiously. The now blind cat, shook her head, dislodging the spider before he could bite her.

Well, okay, that’s enough of that!, Harry thought, running at full speed toward the open garage.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what got into him,” said Wilbur’s human, picking up the small pincher. She backed quickly off the porch. By this time, most of the crickets had made it safely to the garden, Bernie included.

The other woman answered her. “It’s like all the animals have gone crazy!” Then she addressed herself to the cat, “POOFY! Look at the mess you made!” She picked up the cat and gave her a dirty look. Tossing her lightly into the house, Poofy had the screen door shut in her face. How undignified.
The monarch had fallen.
After a few minutes of searching, both humans located poor Harry lurking in the garage. His attempt to hide in “the kitty penthouse” proved unsuccessful. It would have given him another chance at his hated foe, but it was not to be.

Oh well, thought Harry. It was worth one more try.
From the shelter of a lovely daisy, Bernie and his lady friend watched Wilbur and his human return to their yard. The glass tank was righted, the spider caught, and the cat imprisoned inside her mansion. Bernie turned to his new acquaintance.

“You know, in all the commotion, we haven’t been properly introduced. My name’s Bernie.”

“Delilah,” said the lady cricket.

“What a beautiful name!,” said Bernie. Then, suddenly feeling very shy, he added, “Much better than Bernie anyway.”

“Nonsense! Bernie’s a perfectly noble name!” replied Delilah. Bernie’s bravery, in the face of such overwhelming odds, impressed her deeply. Her wonder increased as they got to know each other better. The story of his life – from the weed garden across the street to living indoors with a dog – filled her with awe and admiration.

“And you say you’ve met Poofy before?” she asked, not entirely believing what she was hearing.

“Oh yes, she’s responsible for this,” Bernie gestured to his missing back leg. He became self conscious, remembering how the other crickets had taunted him when he was younger.

With sudden understanding, she looked with irritation at three crickets peeking out from behind a leaf. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” she told him. “You’ve done more with your five legs than the three of them did with all eighteen of theirs!”

Sid, Tom, and Joe hung their heads and advanced toward the couple.

“It’s true,” said Tom, stepping forward. “We misjudged you. Badly. And we’re sorry! We owe you our lives.”

Bernie smiled, snuggled closer to his new lady friend, and told the others, “Fellas, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Bernie’s friendship with his former hecklers blossomed, as did his love affair with Delilah. He didn’t forget his old friends with the new ones, and he remembered his promise to Wilbur. Delilah, along with his other companions, accompanied him on his mission to save the groundhogs.

“But where will we find them?” asked his lady love.

“Yeah, dude, I have no idea where to look!” spoke up Sid.

The other two crickets agreed.

Bernie was not deterred. “Wilbur told me they run in front of cars. So they must hang out by the road somewhere.”

“But which road? And what if we get run over?” complained Joe.

“That road,” said Bernie, pointing beyond the yard. “I’ve seen them before dodging traffic. It just never occurred to me they were risking their lives!” He took a breath and continued, “I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.”

The others looked at him.

“Surely saving lives is worth a little risk?” Bernie looked back at them and smiled.

Delilah and the others smiled back.

The five of them set off together to save the suicidal groundhogs.

Gary the groundhog poked his head out of his hole and contemplated the open road before him. He’d already nibbled some berries, and he needed more sustainable fare for the little ones. He grinned to himself as he thought of their helpless blind looks. They completely depended on him.

Well, he didn’t see any good berries in the immediate vicinity, so he might as well try what he quaintly referred to as “the breakfast club.” He often found ready to eat grub along the open road – discarded debris that could feed his growing family.

The asphalt path stretched before him, and anxiously he peered across the street. Maybe there was a ready meal nearby. He got ready to cross.

The insect quintet stood opposite the groundhog across the asphalt path. Tom nudged Bernie and voiced the question they were all thinking. “Don’t groundhogs eat crickets?”

Bernie took this into consideration. A little prudence might be in order.

“I have another plan.”

The groundhog looked around for something, anything to fill his belly and that of his children. He sat up on his fat haunches and sniffed the air. His keen ears perked up at an unfamiliar voice. It was coming from across the street.

“Hey! Hey there!,” the voice called. Gary peered across the road, but he saw nothing. “Don’t bother looking. we’re very well hidden.”

Gary sat back and tried not to look irritated. He put his hands on his hips. “Well, what do you want then?”

“A chance to talk to you, on behalf of an old friend,” Bernie’s voice replied.

Gary waited.

He waited some more.

“Well,” he said. “Are you going to talk or what?” He wasn’t used to strange voices and didn’t think he liked it. Still, it didn’t sound threatening.

After a short consultation with his friends, Bernie continued. “We want to talk to you about what you’re doing.”

This confused Gary. Certainly that wasn’t a hard task, but he still felt uneasy. “What am I doing?”

“About to kill yourself!” called out Tom, before the others could quiet him.

“Shhhhh! We need to be careful how we talk to him!” Bernie admonished. Tom took an involuntary step back.

A car sped past them on the road.

Gary tapped his foot. “I’m waiting…!” he said.

“You don’t have to do it,” Bernie stated.

“Do what?”

Clearly, Bernie would have to spell it out for him. “You don’t have to get run over.”

“What???”

Another car drove by.

Very slowly, Bernie explained his meaning. “You don’t have to get run over by a car. Whatever is wrong, there must be a solution. Maybe we can help you.”

“I don’t… wait, you think I want to get run over?”

“It’s not worth it, whatever it is!” called out Sid.

“Um, guys, whoever you are… I’m just hungry.”

“So you don’t want to get run over by a car?”

“Uh… no, not particularly. Why?”

Yet another car passed between them.

Bernie wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, my friend said groundhogs try to get run over by cars…”

“Ummm,” said Gary. “Ummm, no. I can’t really say that’s high on my wish list.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Bernie spoke. “Sooo…why are you trying to cross the street?”

Yet another car passed between them. A crumpled paper bag flew out and landed in the grass, narrowly missing the insects.

“Oh, goody! I love fast food!” squealed Gary in delight. He started to cross the road.

“No, stop!” screamed Bernie, panic stricken.

Gary stopped. A car sped past and narrowly missed him.

He paused a moment and then asked, “So, you thought we wanted to get run over?” He scratched his head, remembering his late relatives who had passed on to the great beyond. He was beginning to see where someone might get the crazy idea they were suicidal. “Do you have any food? I have little ones to think of!”

“That depends,” replied Delilah. “Do you eat crickets?”
After consulting on all the wonderful dietary choices available to groundhogs that wouldn’t involve cricket fatalities, the fabulous five approached Gary to discuss in more detail how to properly cross a street. The groundhog swore he would always look both ways to make sure the road was clear before crossing. He promised to pass the lesson on to the other groundhogs, especially his young ones and his accident prone extended family.

He was so grateful, in fact, that he took Bernie and his friends back home. Gary took them to Wilbur’s house first though, so the little black cricket could fill the dog in on the details of their adventure.

In the downstairs family room, the miniature pincher woke up to a tapping on the window – the one that had led Bernie astray so many weeks before. He looked up to see the dark shadow of an animal tapping on the glass. The groundhog with his five passengers called to him, but his ears only heard a muffled noise.

Confused, he called his human and ran upstairs to the door. Once outside, he went straight to the weed garden by the window. “What are you guys doing here?” he asked.

Gary told him, “I gave these guys a ride back. It was the least I could do after what they did for me!” He related his narrow miss and how Bernie had kept his promise, thus saving groundhogs everywhere. Apparently the groundhog grapevine was very efficient. Soon, they would all know to look both ways before crossing the street.

“I wanted to let you know I kept my promise,” Bernie said.

Wilbur looked at him and then Delilah.

“And I want you to know something, too,” she told Bernie. “You’re going to be a daddy!

All the guys crowded around Bernie and Delilah, congratulating the happy couple.

“So your dream has come true!” said Wilbur with a grin.

Good friends, family, and the impending patter of tiny feet – what more could anyone possibly want?

“Would any of you guys like to babysit?” Bernie asked.

*****
Addendum
*Just a word about cats. From reading this story, one might get the impression that all those of the feline persuasion are generally difficult, pampered, mean spirited creatures. This is, of course, totally false. The antagonist of the story, otherwise known as “Poofy,” is indeed of the feline persuasion. Her entire species cannot be held accountable for a single bad apple.** The world is full of many, perfectly lovely cats. Poofy simply isn’t one of them.

**The term “bad apple,” likewise does not reflect poorly on other apples or indeed any other type of fruit. It’s simply a convenient colloquialism.***

***Oh dear. Colloquialism means a convenient slang phrase that is currently used and therefore the reader should probably already know what is meant which renders further explanation unnecessary. “Oh dear” was simply an expletive used to release some of the author’s frustration with all the addendums, and in no way should it imply that the author is expressing undue familiarity with the reader of this story.

THE END.

Extreme… what does that word mean anyway?
You use the words that others don’t use
Live what you think, and mean what you say
Call things what they are and not hide your views

Dairy and cheese are secretions from cows.
Meat is flesh. Call it by its proper name.
“Beef” once was living, Pork- hogs, piglets, sows.
Nice euphemisms are used to kill blame.

Walk past the mass grave marked “Meat Department”
Put “Go veg” cards on the Live Lobster tank
Feel their cold prison with your fingers bent
doomed to die so butchers go to the bank

In a world where innocents have no voice,
being extreme is the only sane choice.