You Tarzan, Me Lunch Meat

It’s the middle of November and the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the air is warmer than it has any right to be. The outdoors calls to me like sunshine seducing a tiger lily after a cloudy day. I dress for the weather, and for hunting season. I look like a giant, fluorescent orange Popsicle. Even the dog in her orange and yellow vest belongs to the Popsicle Club. It is a necessary uniform even when one is going for a walk on one’s own property. It says, “Please don’t shoot me because I am not a deer.” Normal people, neighbours, even the gentlest, most soft-spoken, polite people in these here parts get a bit of a crazed gleam in their eyes at this time of the year. If a look could speak it would say, my safety is off, my index finger is twitchy, and I’m wound tighter than a one-legged frog who’s just spotted a garter snake hiding behind my lily pad.

But soft warm breezes are calling and I have to take advantage before the snows fly, so we head out the door, my trusty Poopsicle and I. She sprints ahead, barks at vagrant leaves, or does backflips. I am only doing that in my head. Suddenly a partridge hurls itself into the air and two things happen simultaneously. I freeze while having a heart attack; the dog bolts with her tail between her legs and is almost five meters away before the grouse is fully airborne. It’s the same thing every time one of these sneaky, heart-attack-giving birds launches itself skyward. I usually mutter something about getting a twenty-two, and the dog bristles and goes into hunt mode now that she is positive that the peril has passed.

This exact scenario has probably played itself out about two hundred times in the last couple of years. But for some reason today it brings to mind a small passage I read in the book, Tarzan of the Apes. Tarzan and his small cousin, I forget his name, are getting a drink at the edge of a river. Tarzan is looking at their reflections and is appalled at the ugliness of his own puny, pale face, while at the same time he is envious of his cousin’s thick fur, wide nose, close-set eyes, and protruding fangs. Suddenly, Numa the lion roars behind the two small figures. The roar freezes the poor little cousin, but launches Tarzan into action. Certain death behind him, almost guaranteed death from drowning in the deep waters ahead, but instead of drowning he ends up teaching himself to swim, an activity he will enjoy for the rest of his life. The author, Edgar Rice Burroughs, then goes on to explain that Tarzan’s reflexes are lightning fast due to the fact that he is a human and therefore has a powerful intellect compared to the unfortunate ape at his side. Consequently Tarzan survives while his cousin becomes kitty nibbles.

Which brings me to my point: Although I love my dog I am pretty sure that a rutabaga would give her a run for her money in terms of intellect. After all, I’ve seen her eat toilet paper! More than once. So here we are. I, the human, with the vast powers of a brain the size of a small planetoid at my disposal, freeze and so would end up as so much bird feed for the ferocious ruffled grouse if it had a mind to eat a petrified human. Whereas my drooling, poop-eating, butt-licking, rotten-fish-rolling, dog would end up learning how to swim. Although come to think of it, I am a tiny bit jealous of her beautiful fur, long nose, and bright white fangs.

Image Credit

Photo by Gab Halasz – All Rights Reserved

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