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Today I am cleaning out some old files and rediscovering a few memories from the past. As I sit down to write a new essay, this story keeps floating to the surface. It’s true. It’s funny. And even though my oldest granddaughter just turned 21 this year, her choices continue to offer insight. So, grab your favorite beverage and join me in a smile.
The year is 2006. Lucy is four years old. Her soft blond hair is curly and her laugh is contagious. She absolutely LOVES animals! She seems motivated by curiosity and concern as she conveys generous affection to all creatures she encounters. While experience teaches a certain respect for danger, this budding zoologist is fearless. No cat, dog, slug, frog, fish, turtle, lizard, firefly, or earthworm escapes her caress. Lucy explores all living creatures equally, without preference or prejudice.
One day I drop by for a visit. I am immediately confused when Lucy announces, “This is a bad day. I’m grounded from holding animals!” At first, I imagine some innocent slug may have evolved into an experiment with the chemical reactions of salt. This is not the case.
As I survey the surroundings, I see Hector, the three-legged rescue dog, managing to race across the yard. I question Lucy about the brown ferret she frequently attempts to balance on her head. Then my eyes dart to the aquarium where I absent-mindedly count the fish. A praying mantis is moving around in a glass jar. Two small hermit crabs are resting in their shells. I observe no evidence of torture in the backyard of Lucy’s impromptu nature preserve.
Finally, I asked, “Why are you grounded from holding animals?”
Lucy shyly points to “Monster.” This cat’s ebony ears tremble like velvet leaves as he cautiously peeks out from underneath the car. She calls him Monster only because he is growing so fast. In reality, the gentle black and white kitten is less than a year old. Salvaged from a parking lot, this grateful cat is often the very willing target of cuddles and hugs. His white whiskers twitch excitedly when he’s allowed the privilege of napping on Lucy’s bed.
After focusing for several minutes, I notice Monster’s long white whiskers are missing. The remaining stubble of hair resembles stoic bristles of a tiny hairbrush. The cat makes no attempt to exit the relative safety of the car bumper. Lucy shrugs. “They tickled me too much,” she announces, “so that’s why I cut ’em.” I assume this to be an honest explanation from a precocious four-year-old. The rational solution for a minor irritation is to remove it. So, Lucy is grounded from cuddling animals today.
The animals are resting. And I am laughing, sympathetically.
The logic of Lucy’s behavior is also my logic. How often have I reacted hastily to the stimulus of temporary irritation? My voice and behaviors can sever parts of those I love as surly as Lucy’s scissors. I impulsively insist on removing whatever bothers me without analyzing the overall effect. Metaphorically, I cut the whiskers of those I love and fail to consider the long-term results. Monster’s missing whiskers will impact the cat’s ability to do what cats do. The absence of those whiskers may be painful and even limit the cat’s interpretation of his surroundings. There is always a consequence to any choice.
Perspective matters. Lucy’s story is a lesson. When you’re 4, you don’t have all the facts and your impulsive solutions may be amusing. By the time you are 40, the facts should be a prerequisite to action. Age and experience make me accountable. First, do no harm.
Finally, consider this advice from Lucy. “Before you use scissors to cut anything, you need first to ask your mommy.” This certainly includes the cat’s whiskers!
The year is 2006. Lucy is four years old. Her soft blond hair is curly and her laugh is contagious. She absolutely LOVES animals! She seems motivated by curiosity and concern as she conveys generous affection to all creatures she encounters. While experience teaches a certain respect for danger, this budding zoologist is fearless. No cat, dog, slug, frog, fish, turtle, lizard, firefly, or earthworm escapes her caress. Lucy explores all living creatures equally, without preference or prejudice.
One day I drop by for a visit. I am immediately confused when Lucy announces, “This is a bad day. I’m grounded from holding animals!” At first, I imagine some innocent slug may have evolved into an experiment with the chemical reactions of salt. This is not the case.
As I survey the surroundings, I see Hector, the three-legged rescue dog, managing to race across the yard. I question Lucy about the brown ferret she frequently attempts to balance on her head. Then my eyes dart to the aquarium where I absent-mindedly count the fish. A praying mantis is moving around in a glass jar. Two small hermit crabs are resting in their shells. I observe no evidence of torture in the backyard of Lucy’s impromptu nature preserve.
Finally, I asked, “Why are you grounded from holding animals?”
Lucy shyly points to “Monster.” This cat’s ebony ears tremble like velvet leaves as he cautiously peeks out from underneath the car. She calls him Monster only because he is growing so fast. In reality, the gentle black and white kitten is less than a year old. Salvaged from a parking lot, this grateful cat is often the very willing target of cuddles and hugs. His white whiskers twitch excitedly when he’s allowed the privilege of napping on Lucy’s bed.
After focusing for several minutes, I notice Monster’s long white whiskers are missing. The remaining stubble of hair resembles stoic bristles of a tiny hairbrush. The cat makes no attempt to exit the relative safety of the car bumper. Lucy shrugs. “They tickled me too much,” she announces, “so that’s why I cut ’em.” I assume this to be an honest explanation from a precocious four-year-old. The rational solution for a minor irritation is to remove it. So, Lucy is grounded from cuddling animals today.
The animals are resting. And I am laughing, sympathetically.
The logic of Lucy’s behavior is also my logic. How often have I reacted hastily to the stimulus of temporary irritation? My voice and behaviors can sever parts of those I love as surly as Lucy’s scissors. I impulsively insist on removing whatever bothers me without analyzing the overall effect. Metaphorically, I cut the whiskers of those I love and fail to consider the long-term results. Monster’s missing whiskers will impact the cat’s ability to do what cats do. The absence of those whiskers may be painful and even limit the cat’s interpretation of his surroundings. There is always a consequence to any choice.
Perspective matters. Lucy’s story is a lesson. When you’re 4, you don’t have all the facts and your impulsive solutions may be amusing. By the time you are 40, the facts should be a prerequisite to action. Age and experience make me accountable. First, do no harm.
Finally, consider this advice from Lucy. “Before you use scissors to cut anything, you need first to ask your mommy.” This certainly includes the cat’s whiskers!
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