Animal Spirits

Last night our writer's group had our second meeting. It was awesome. We wrote about what animal we would be, and at the end I remembered a similar exercise that i had done with a writing class twenty five years ago. 


I am inviting the group to post their own. I hope they will. The writing, like the people, was varied and fun.

What kind of animal are you?

1) I am a cat. I am not like a cat. I am a cat. I curl in front of the fire, toasting myself in the best place, the place where the heat is most radiant. I meow when I want your attention or when my food bowl is empty. When I feel like it, you can pet me and I will purr. When I’m tired of your attention, I’ll walk away without saying good-bye. If you sit in my favorite chair, the deep lounger by the fireplace, I may sit in your lap. Or I may just look at you until you move.

Sometimes, I like to play. I chase little suns reflecting off of the dinner knives. I chase dust balls, but I never throw them away. I never chase my tail. That is ridiculous.

I play only if I am in the mood to play. If you want me to chase a string, but I want to rest, I will almost close my eyes, leaving only little suspicious slits to keep my eye on you.

I am an outdoor cat. I run in the grass. I chase shadows. I stretch in the sun. I have claws.

When you pet me, I rumble quietly, a lawn mower sound of contentment. My hair sheds onto your hand, but do not stop. I like being close to you even when I pretend that I do not care.

2) I am a dolpin. I swim in the ocean with the sharks, but I don’t get too grim when they bare their teeth. I tell them jokes and hope that some day they will laugh. They never do.

When I swim with my friends, we jump through the ocean’s waves just before they break. Synchronized diving. I like it when the seagulls or the pelicans come close to watch us.

In the summer tides, I swim into the sound. Small children jump in the water at the shallow shoreline.  They clap their hands and point at me. They are my soulmates.

I follow ski boats, dancing in their wake. I watch over fallen skiers. I love and I protect.

3) I am a turtle. I carry my house, which I call a backpack, on my shoulders. I move slowly. If there is a bright light, I bob my head in its direction. I will not rush.

I was born wrinkled, already old before my time began.

When I hatched, I dug myself out of a sandy hole and fliippered my little shell over hot sand mounds to the ocean’s shore, watched over by sentimental tourists and frigate birds. I do not want to be a frigate bird snack. I have not yet lived long, but I know that I do not want to die yet. I work for life.

I want to go to the home where I belong, an ocean of warm and cool currents, friendly starfish and blob-like jellyfish. An ocean where I can go unnoticed.

I carry my home wherever I go. My shell is my home and my shell is my shield, too.  When I feel shy or uncertain, I pull my head in unapologetically. I am a rock.

You will not know me. You will know only my shell.

Twenty-five  years ago, a friend who is now a psychiatrist told me about an exercise in which you ask someone three times What kind of animal they would be. Each answer gave some insight into the person, which I think was:

What kind of animal are you?

1)   How you see yourself.

2)   How you want others to see you.

3)   How you truly are.