The Boy Who Spoke To Animals
Presented beneath is the transcript of the last message he left into his dictaphone, May 6th 1998. RIP.
I must have been only six or seven when I first realised that my relationship to the world of nature was somewhat different to that of others.
I remember so well that first incident. Mother was standing by the sink next to the stove, aproned, rubber-gloved. My younger brother, Sammy, had just been born and he had pride of place lying in his crib in the middle of the large kitchen table.
We found it on the ground, weak and unable to stand. Mother asked me how I knew it was there. The birdsong was particularly loud that day.
'The birds told me,' I said, and that was the first time it happened.
My life has moved fast since then. In my teens I was sent to an agricultural college; a few years later I was examined by every eminent physician and pyschologist of the day to establish the cause of this phenomenen. They could not find a reason.
I believe myself to be mildly autistic. The nuances of human behaviour an unknown to me; the meta-emotions of social pride and guilt are beyond my capabilities. The baser emotions of simple longing and ecstasy are well within my reach, and perhaps this is what has led to my situation.
Since my late twenties I have been glorified by a society looking for other obsessions than pure science. They've stopped examining me, and now I am only used for my ability. For all else I am excluded.
I am a performer. I put on a show. And behind the scenes, as far as the audience are concerned, I don't exist. I am ignored, and yes, I was lonely.
I was lonely. I am lonely again. I rescued Annie from the streets many years ago. She was only a puppy then, and we grew up together, experienced everything together. She was my only true friend, and as a matter of course, our friendship turned to love. Then, as an expression of our love, we adopted a child, Polly.
Now she is dead.
She died because of the way society had treated me - excluded me, found 'special' pursuits for me, made me live my life away from the camera, and when the camera came, become someone else.
The audience burnt my bridges. They watched me walk to the edge of the cliff, and when the time came, they gathered so there was no way back but to jump.
In her dying months, Annie repeatedly asked me for something, which I insist may have been the only thing capable of saving her. I didn't understand a word she said.
All the time we were together, I didn't understand a word she said.
You see, Annie was a German Shephard. I had been excluded from such schools, shunned away. I knew nothing of any modern language. For the time we were together, the language Annie and I had spoken transcended mere sounds. I remember still the muscle in her haunches and the rough skin on her toes. The soft warmth at the confluence of her hind legs.
There's a spot, just under her ribs, by her belly where I can feel the heat of her lifeblood, the gentle beating of her heart. Or, there used to be a spot, for now she is gone.
I know this is the cowardly exit, but every actor must make his exit in some way, or the spotlight will fade and they'll be left in the darkness, abandoned. I cannot help but feeling that there was something I could have done, and that Annie would not have died, should not have died. I cannot continue living knowing that I have killed the one I love.
All I hope that come outs of this tragic affair is that Polly is better looked after. I cannot bring up the fruit of our love without my first love being there. Every time I look at Polly I am reminded.
So here goes.
There, I've closed the door.
Already Polly knows that something's wrong. The porcine screams that have built up from her concerned grunting chill my soul, but I have chosen my path now.
My last memories... Polly's curly tail, her soft snout. And Annie, such deep brown eyes, warm, and soft. Hold me as I enter the darkness.
I love you.