Saving Animals, Healing Ourselves, And Why

SOMEONE WAS SPECULATING on why people who try to save animals try to save animals. I took his meaning to be mainly a reference to stray and feral cats, and homeless dogs, but assumed that his musings could apply to any and all animals, sick, injured, hungry, in obvious need of any sort of assistance. It was a topic of personal interest to me, since I am among the large fraternity of tryers. My intended targets of salvation are stray and feral cats, of whom I have several currently, and, over the years, have had many. Eventually they all died; my grief is ameliorated somewhat by the fact that, well, at least I tried. And although I can never be certain, I can at least tell myself that, if nothing else, I gave love to a beautiful being who otherwise would perhaps have lived a life unloved. Even in this I can never be sure. All I can do is try, and leave it at that. He first conjectured that we try because perhaps we are trying to heal ourselves from all the times when we ourselves needed help, and it never came. He went on to speculate that perhaps we are trying to compensate for all the times we tried to save people, and failed, finally realizing that people cannot be saved by others, but can only save themselves. His final idea was that perhaps we try to save animals simply because we realize that they are eminently worth saving, or,if nothing else, worth the attempt. We try, and sometimes, we fail. Like prayer, sometimes the answer is "no". On the surface it may seem is if the final speculation as to motive is the only one applicable and necessary. Maybe so. We try because it is worth trying. But the first two, concerning healing ourselves through healing animals, somehow resonates with me, and, I might be so bold as to surmise, others as well. Perhpas is is true that we at least partly try to save animals as a means of trying to save ourselves, from emotional pain, or perhaps even from a life of meaningless unproductive futility. Distinctly I recall nearly fifty years ago I was taking a long walk,as I tended to do as a teenager and young adult, and came across an injured bird, lying on the ground, unable to fly. I raced home, got a cardboard box, raced back to the bird which had not moved, gently placed the struggling creature in the box, and went home. As I started to leave, a lady who happened to be watching, told me that she thought I was "a good boy" for trying to save the injured bird. "I'll see what I can do", I said, lamely. Suddenly I felt a great, unrelenting burden of responsibility. I also realized, although I was reluctant to admit it,to admit to myself that I had no idea in the world what I could possibly do to help the poor little bird, and I was quite well aware that indeed there was nothing I could do but keep it out of further danger,by guarding it, and hoping it would heal itself. Deep down, I knew that it couldn't, and sure enough, it died very soon thereafter. I gave it a private burial in my mother's yard, shed a tear or two,and went on with my life, knowing that I had, if nothing else, tried. It was small comfort. Until this essay I have never mentioned the incident to anyone, nor thought much about it. Now, fifty years later, I mention it to anybody and everybody. Perhaps all these years I have been ashamed of my impotence, my powerlessness, my inability to do anything meaniningful. Now, with the return of the memory, the memory of my grief returns, and I feel it all over again. Well, maybe by writing this essay I have, in some small way, healed myself. Again, a tear or two, fitty years too late. Maybe by acknowledging once again my limitations, I have grown. Maybe the lady, who is perhaps herself now dead, spent the rest of her life thinking about the incident occasionally, and choosing to believe for her own comfort that the nice boy actually helped heal the bird, and that it flew once again. At the end of our days, it may be that we can only say about ourselves what I would like to have engraved on my urn of ashes: I tried.