Thursday, September 15, 2016

The Futile Caterwauling of the Sloth

The girl and her dog went out looking for water. Their walking made very little noise and from their footprints arose subtle wafts that said: ‘thirst, thirst.’

A kindly sloth came ambling through the forest, smelled the thirsty footsteps, and caterwauled directions to the nearest clearwater stream.  “Right at the largest blackberry bush! Left at the tree that looks like a broken leg!” Other sloths could have understood him, but to the girl and her dog it came out: “Raawrr aorhgh aorhgh.”

The girl and her dog were happy folk, and had a natural interest in things. If they came across a butterfly or a snake’s eggs, they would pause and observe with enchantment. This pausing hadn’t been a problem before, but soon they began to notice that whenever they felt enchantment, their thirst intensified.

This became most evident when they encountered an oddly glossy mushroom, shaped like an ear. They bent down to examine its minute hairs and beautiful gloss. But oh! This made the thirst unbearable. They turned away from the mushroom and their thirst subsided. The dog whined.

Life went on like this--that is to say, miserably. They did not die because they sometimes found water. But it was always in insufficient amounts: quantities that would have barely taken the edge off the thirst of a hummingbird.

Over time, to survive, their eyes became dim to the world. Rarely, only rarely, their vision was snatched by a shimmering caterpillar or the majesty of the stars. But whenever this happened, their shared tongue would swell and dry up like a salted slug. 

Yes, they shared a tongue, but it’s of no importance really.

The only importance is that of lost hope, and of the futile caterwauling of the sloth.