Stop! Don’t click away. I’ve not gone all triple-X rating.
Let me explain.
For the first time in the history of ever, my mother’s surgical consultation (cataracts) ended up with not one, but two surgeries scheduled not months out, as is usual, but within a week of the consultation date. My head spun, but we were grateful this show was getting on the road.
So after the first eye was all cleaned out, and after a very long day of waiting rooms and surgery suites, Mom and I crashed in our hotel room so we could rise and shine and do the doctor thing all over again because that’s how cataract surgery works. Slice. Rise. Repeat visit.
Then repeat that over again in a week.
But this first round, we were tired and the 60+ mile drive didn’t look so attractive the morning after, so hotel it was.
The television in our room had a barely-working remote (the BWR). This BWR was so bad that once we decided on something that wasn’t a news station we stuck with it (I can’t even with the news right now—the next day, a chocolate factory had blown up and half of Mississippi and part of Dallas were missing. Not great stuff to fall asleep to). It was just too tedious and painful to wait ten seconds for the signal to go from the tip of the BWR to the sensor on the TV to tell it we wanted a change, please.
Animal Planet saved the day—uh, night. I was beyond tired (come to find out a full-blown thyroid crash had something to do with this), and I probably shouldn’t have been “in charge” of anything since I truly couldn’t be trusted to know whether it was day or night.
I never knew this show existed because the only reason we have cable is for the Hubs to watch sports, and I don’t cable surf. The Secret Life of the Zoo. This zoo is in the UK, so bonus points for the accents. This show boasts 11 seasons—11! Who knew?
And as I cleaned up some day-job stuff with the barely working Wi-Fi (see the trend here?) with my barely working brain, I’d zone in and out to the show’s content, coming to full attention when the monkeys would show up. I have some in my backyard, in my CIRCUS, so I figured learning about their behavior would be rather beneficial.
One episode had my full attention, however. I set the laptop aside, and Mom and I watched (me with sleepy eyes and her with just the one not-yet-sliced eye) in pitiful amazement at the species they were highlighting.
And let me tell you this: No matter what kind of a day you’re having, at least you’re not a dik-dik.
This is one of the most unfortunate little creatures riding on this orb of ours. A dik-dik is a tiny—and I mean tiny—species of antelope native to Africa. Each of my cats is bigger than these mini deer-ish beings.
Chester Zoo takes great care of their dik-diks, and as they watch over the birth of a new addition, the staff gives the viewing audience insight into what these guys must do to survive their day in the wild:
- Drop from the birth canal, lace up the running shoes (hopefully Dicks’ had a B1G1 half-off sale, since you’ll need two pairs), and take your position on the starting line to run from cheetahs, hyenas, jackals, baboons, pythons… the list goes on. If a baby isn’t ready to move-it move-it in the first few hours, it becomes hor d’oeuvres.
- Be scared of everything. Because, given the list above, your startle reflex may just keep you alive. Fear the grass blowing, your mate, the sound of your own chewing. Fear keeps you alive so nothing chews on you.
- Give birth frequently because most of your children will be eaten—especially if you missed that B1G1 half-off sale at Dicks’ before the baby was born.
- Cry. A lot. Because to make your mark on your very tiny corner of the world, you’ll use your tear-like glands to scent your territory. Cry, rub it on a tree. Cry again. Poke your eye with a reed and with that sharp stick over there.
- Whistle “Dik-Dik” through your nose as you zig and zag from foes to let other dik-diks know it’s time to do the same. I’m gonna let you think about this and comment no further.
- If you’re not whistling dik-dik in terror, you use your nose to pick stuff up to see if you can eat it or if you should cry on it.
Trying to look on the positive when one is thyrodic and about to head home to a CIRCUS is a trick, but I can offer you these words of encouragement:
Is your creative endeavor not going so hot? Cry a little; it’ll be okay. At least you don’t have to poke your manuscript pages, pottery shards, drippy paintings, or lopsided crocheted blankets into your eyeball to call them yours.
Did you burn your dinner for the third time this week? At least you’re not the dinner.
Kids making you crazy? At least they’re not dinner.
Does that meeting with the boss, the auditor from the IRS, or that colonoscopy have your fight-or-flight response on speed dial? I bet not one other human being will catch you running zigzags whistling dik-dik from your nose because of it. So there’s that.
