Stories Without Morals (a.k.a. Shoulda Killed the Bitch)
The gypsy moths had taken to the trees in late August, evidenced by a foggy network of webbed dwellings. The communal larvae had flourished among the trees at their salubrious peak, as often is the case in nature. Those that feed bide their time until the picking is ripe; and here, in late August, the gypsy moths were of epidemic proportions in the leafy canopy of the upper branches. This is why the most healthily endowed beings must remain eternally vigilant.
The gypsy moth, an opportunistic and resourceful killer, was feeding with gluttonous passion. In the silence of the wooded expanse of trees with lethal ornaments, the munching was audible. A large oak accustomed to nature’s silence might beckon the timber-leaches chew with their mouths closed before ultimately begging for its life. The death by consumption, the soundtrack of the final moments, was undoubtedly tortuous.
A day spent in the physical exertion of mobile living in the wild saturates portions of the otherwise neglected brain with oxygen. As the lungs turnover a surplus of diatomic Os and the circulatory system achieves its richest shade of crimson, the shriveled noodle of synaptic goo, that same viscous material aforementioned on the pavement, is gifted a heightened sense of physical perception. The energy that one usually spends sorting through the split ends of spontaneous thought is channeled from the mind to the senses. In this euphoric trance, gypsy moths can be heard feeding; and to those with some sensorial fortitude, the woodland air of late August carries the smell and taste of Gypsy Moth breeding grounds.
I was one of the youths this day, blinded by the beauty of nature, and nauseated by the incessant gluttony of the burgeoning moth population. Other than my enlightenment to the ways of the Gypsy Moth, the day had been unpredictably predictable; up until the arrival of the fox.
Gracefully she moved closer to my camp, without a single gesture indicating the extreme violation of our relationship that would ensue. In one fell swoop, while I busied myself with a spoonful of nourishment, she lunged for a zip-lock freezer baggie containing my compass and the morrow’s breakfast. My tranquility disrupted, as I watched nature’s thief sprint away to her den.
I gave chase; and learned that human physiology would not allow the capture of a vixen at full stride in dense woodlands. She had successfully stolen my compass and breakfast. Winded as I were, I rested for a spell with the aid of a fallen tree; life having been taken from it the prior August by none other than the ferocious Porthetria dispar. Heartbroken, hungry, and without direction, I turned for home.
Returning to my tent platform, I was defeated. The vixen, the wild animal I thought was my friend and companion, had ultimately chosen to obey her cheapened survival instincts.
Considering what she had plundered from my camp, I began to understand that she had stolen little from me compared to what I was prepared to offer. While my breakfast would fill her belly for a day, or perhaps two, she would need to forage again; and nourishment I would not again foolishly supply. The compass to her was worthless without my interpretation of its bearings. Its plastic case would remain unopened in her den; a memento of her failure; knowing that I would be required to decode its cryptic meaning. Had she stayed beside me, I would have been my pleasure to share with her copious freeze-dried teriyaki chicken with rice and point her in whatever direction she wished.
I slept the night uncomfortably. The next day, while preparing dark coffee in place of my oatmeal, the fox returned. She carried herself with the same poise I had marveled at during our first meeting. There was no visible sign of guilt. I looked at the animal with untrusting eyes, prepared for her attempt to seize my belongings. I stood atop the tent platform defending my camp. She still came closer. I shouted at her, scolding her with profanity. Still, she came closer. I reached for my knife, and threw it at the animal hoping my speed and aim would deftly produce revolutions mathematically favorable, allowing the sharpened edge of the blade to penetrate her flesh. As the knife landed at her paw staggered farthest forward, she scampered off into the vast wilderness. We never met again.
She was unaware of the implications of her infidelity. The prior evening, she had seized from me far more than breakfast and compass.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Sunday, September 10, 2006.
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