Dear Buddha:
I do not believe that being reborn as an animal represents a spiritual setback.
Yours,
Mr. Spruce Grove
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Spruce Grove is the English translation of the Finnish name “Kuusisto”.
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In short: every ritual should astonish human arrangements.
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At the famous arts colony as the artists were finishing dinner I explained my seeing-eye dog—the “ins and outs” of interacting with her. The speech wasn’t long but I realized it was miniature soapbox address, my little corner of Hyde Park. I didn’t know—couldn’t conceive really, that in the coming years I’d give this admonitory micro-lecture daily and in every part of the world. Nor did I realize that the reception of my dog among the artists would reflect elements in broader life.
Immediately after dinner a woman composer wanted to know why she couldn’t break the rules and pet my dog anytime she wished because, in essence, she was a unique human being. The guide dog school hadn’t prepared me for interactions with a special category of vanity—what I’d eventually call “auto-biophilia”—the Romantic belief that because you think you’re special, in turn you have a unique intuitive bond with animal life.
If you have a service animal you frequently meet people who are materially unfulfilled and projective where animals are concerned. The Doctor Doolittles; the PETA propagandists; New Age types. I do agree with Edward O Wilson, the Harvard entomologist who coined the term biophilia. He wrote: “Humanity is exalted not because we are so far above other living creatures, but because knowing them well elevates the very concept of life.” I agree that our animals enrich us. But don’t touch my dog. I smiled at the composer and walked away.
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I went to the river to find my old Moses basket.
Went to the river to scoop up mirror neurons.
Went to the river to talk to an old horse.
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My favorite Tony Blair joke:
Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, is being shown around a hospital. Towards the end of the visit, he is shown into a ward with a number people with no obvious signs of injury or disease. He goes to greet the first patient and the chap replies: “Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain e’ the puddin’ race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm; Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace as lang’s my arm.” Tony, being somewhat confused (easily done) goes to the next patient and greets him. The patient replies: “Some hae meat, and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it, but we hae meat and can eat, and sae the Lord be thankit.”The third starts rattling off as follows: “Wee sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an chase thee, wi murdering pattle!” Tony turns to the doctor accompanying him and asks what sort of ward is this. A mental ward? “No,” replies the doctor, “It’s the Burns unit.”
Planet of the Blind 