how different are we?
We reason, we regret and we choose. This makes us human. We fight, we hunt and we have sex. This makes us animal. As a species we have survived and counterintuitive to the logic of Darwinian selection, we have somehow allowed ourselves to become sentimental. Puzzling but despite how we fancy ourselves to be evolved, how different are we from animals?
I stood on the wrong side of a velvet rope on Saturday night. It was the first time in a long while that I even attempted to brave the nightlife in this town. An acquaintance of a friend had organized a party which was held at a club on La Cienega Blvd. Republic, in case you ever want to not go there.
Cash Money and I approached the thumping doorway, through which the sexy brought themselves back. Low pink lights threw their beams against explosed flesh. Something cinema was projected onto the wall. It was all very au courant. The soon-to-be sexy crowded around us, boxed out by the dark, velour partition designed to keep the (out in the) cold from the hot. And in front of us, in the very center stood the valve that controled it all: a 5 foot tall alpha-female bouncer in a long black leather coat that looked like a discard from the Matrix set.
Clipboard tucked firmly under her arm. Gaze unimpressed. I watched her unhook the rope for two tall model types with four impossibly enormous plastic tits between them. Human. Or human-made rather. She allowed women in. No men. The golden rule of clubs: the more women you have inside, the more selective you can be with the men who crowd and peer and lust for admittance. Definitely animal. Cash Money and I weren't sure what to make of our chances. It was midnight. We were tired. The host of the party was probably nowhere to be found. Cash Money made a go at the ice queen who had approached us as if to speak. She asked the ice queen if she had the guest list to which the ice queen responded by walking away, not even acknowledging the question or our presence. It was one of the rudest things I have ever seen. How dare she give us a cursory evaluation and decide that we were not worthy of her time. That we were not worthy of getting in where we would have to pay some $20 to be given the opportunity to spend some $20 on alcohol. Cash and I humanly decided we were not going to subject ourselves to such disregard. We were proud. We headed to our cars, along the way passing a variety of inebriated young things dressed like expensive prostitutes. We may have growled.
The next day, a different friend and I drove forty miles north to a small town called Acton. My friend, an animal lover, met a woman from the basset hound rescue at a pet parade in Long Beach. She gave him a brochure about their facility and after carefully navigating a gravely dirt road, we found ourselves at their door on a sunny Sunday morning.
As we approached the gate, it rattled with the excitement and barking of what I can only estimate to be twenty-five basset hounds. There were many more hounds, ninety-six to be exact; some of them wandering farther off, some still in their kennels but only twenty-five seemed to show immediate interest in us. We were careful not to let them escape as we slid through the gate and swam the sea of floppy ears and short legs. They crowded around us, stepping over each other, barking at friends who jumped the line. We nearly drowned. We didn't have enough hands to pet them. Everyone wanted some attention. Animal? Some of them stayed at the outskirts of the frenzy, preferring to observe and have their space. Human? An older, matter-of-fact woman in a basset hound t-shirt named Carol began introducing each of them by name. Sugar Momma, Gracie, Turbo, Honey nee Freckles, Wilson and Charlie were a few. It was one thing to recall all the names, but how could she tell them apart? She carried no clipboard. It was incredible.
We were given a tour of the facility. A rainbow of leashes hung on nails in the wall. Stainless steel dog bowls were stacked next to the sink. Each cage had a bed and a tenant. In the kitchen, Katie (a hound) slept on the floor. Katie was deaf and blind. We heard the stories of their most tragic cases. One of their dogs had been lynched as part of a gang initiation. He was presumed dead by a police officer who thought it'd be best to cut him down before the students from a nearby school got out for lunch. So the policeman cut the rope, the body fell to the ground and as he removed the noose, the dog took a breath. He had barely survived. I feel bad I can't remember his name. A rescue worker who didn't know his history grabbed him by his neck when he tried to jump out of her car. He bit her. She ordered him put down. Due to a paperwork error, Dawn the rescue coordinator we met (by far, one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet with hair that looks like it's dancing on her head) fought for a year to have him brought to her care. She finally won but it took another six months before he allowed her to put a collar on him. Eventually he did and she saved him from his immediate fate. "He'll live out the rest of his days with us," she said.
I took it upon myself to pet a very still hound named BJ who has cancer. She didn't seem to notice that I was there. I don't know if it made her feel better that I singled her out but, it made me feel better. I am human after all. Her cancer has metastaticized (spread) and I think it may have contributed to her fatigue. Had we the time, Dawn would have told us the story of each and every dog in her care. We were just too busy. We had a bounty of hounds upon us; climbing on us for hugs, leaving dirt and saliva on our clothes, leaning against our legs as we sat on the ground, poking their muzzles under our arms to perhaps squeeze in for some affection, pawing us to pet them. These are the dogs that no one wants. I wondered if it was a trait of the breed or a byproduct of their dire circumstances that made the basset hounds so hungry for our touch. Nature or nurture? Neither mattered. Though our laps had a maximum occupancy limit and our arms were only two (four) we did not turn any dog away. Every hound was VIP.
From the moment someone walks through the gate, Dawn can tell what type of pet owner they will be. It's instinctual. Animal. In telling us this secret, I gleaned our acceptance from her. Perhaps the ice queen/ mean valve also sized up Cash and me accurately. We were party poopers who, once inside, would only become increasingly judgemental of the melee rather than sling expensive drinks down our gilded throats. I will reluctantly concede to this possibility. Dawn knew my friend and me would be good visitors. One must learn a thing or two from working the door night after night, Sunday after Sunday.
The junior high discomfort of not being approved as part of the pack (no matter how biased the jury) is human. The bitchy comments whispered as slutty 20 year-olds gallivant past you is also human. The joy of being a part of the pack is animal. The need to be loved and to be petted once in a while?
I stood on the wrong side of a velvet rope on Saturday night. It was the first time in a long while that I even attempted to brave the nightlife in this town. An acquaintance of a friend had organized a party which was held at a club on La Cienega Blvd. Republic, in case you ever want to not go there.
Cash Money and I approached the thumping doorway, through which the sexy brought themselves back. Low pink lights threw their beams against explosed flesh. Something cinema was projected onto the wall. It was all very au courant. The soon-to-be sexy crowded around us, boxed out by the dark, velour partition designed to keep the (out in the) cold from the hot. And in front of us, in the very center stood the valve that controled it all: a 5 foot tall alpha-female bouncer in a long black leather coat that looked like a discard from the Matrix set.
Clipboard tucked firmly under her arm. Gaze unimpressed. I watched her unhook the rope for two tall model types with four impossibly enormous plastic tits between them. Human. Or human-made rather. She allowed women in. No men. The golden rule of clubs: the more women you have inside, the more selective you can be with the men who crowd and peer and lust for admittance. Definitely animal. Cash Money and I weren't sure what to make of our chances. It was midnight. We were tired. The host of the party was probably nowhere to be found. Cash Money made a go at the ice queen who had approached us as if to speak. She asked the ice queen if she had the guest list to which the ice queen responded by walking away, not even acknowledging the question or our presence. It was one of the rudest things I have ever seen. How dare she give us a cursory evaluation and decide that we were not worthy of her time. That we were not worthy of getting in where we would have to pay some $20 to be given the opportunity to spend some $20 on alcohol. Cash and I humanly decided we were not going to subject ourselves to such disregard. We were proud. We headed to our cars, along the way passing a variety of inebriated young things dressed like expensive prostitutes. We may have growled.
The next day, a different friend and I drove forty miles north to a small town called Acton. My friend, an animal lover, met a woman from the basset hound rescue at a pet parade in Long Beach. She gave him a brochure about their facility and after carefully navigating a gravely dirt road, we found ourselves at their door on a sunny Sunday morning.
As we approached the gate, it rattled with the excitement and barking of what I can only estimate to be twenty-five basset hounds. There were many more hounds, ninety-six to be exact; some of them wandering farther off, some still in their kennels but only twenty-five seemed to show immediate interest in us. We were careful not to let them escape as we slid through the gate and swam the sea of floppy ears and short legs. They crowded around us, stepping over each other, barking at friends who jumped the line. We nearly drowned. We didn't have enough hands to pet them. Everyone wanted some attention. Animal? Some of them stayed at the outskirts of the frenzy, preferring to observe and have their space. Human? An older, matter-of-fact woman in a basset hound t-shirt named Carol began introducing each of them by name. Sugar Momma, Gracie, Turbo, Honey nee Freckles, Wilson and Charlie were a few. It was one thing to recall all the names, but how could she tell them apart? She carried no clipboard. It was incredible.
We were given a tour of the facility. A rainbow of leashes hung on nails in the wall. Stainless steel dog bowls were stacked next to the sink. Each cage had a bed and a tenant. In the kitchen, Katie (a hound) slept on the floor. Katie was deaf and blind. We heard the stories of their most tragic cases. One of their dogs had been lynched as part of a gang initiation. He was presumed dead by a police officer who thought it'd be best to cut him down before the students from a nearby school got out for lunch. So the policeman cut the rope, the body fell to the ground and as he removed the noose, the dog took a breath. He had barely survived. I feel bad I can't remember his name. A rescue worker who didn't know his history grabbed him by his neck when he tried to jump out of her car. He bit her. She ordered him put down. Due to a paperwork error, Dawn the rescue coordinator we met (by far, one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet with hair that looks like it's dancing on her head) fought for a year to have him brought to her care. She finally won but it took another six months before he allowed her to put a collar on him. Eventually he did and she saved him from his immediate fate. "He'll live out the rest of his days with us," she said.
I took it upon myself to pet a very still hound named BJ who has cancer. She didn't seem to notice that I was there. I don't know if it made her feel better that I singled her out but, it made me feel better. I am human after all. Her cancer has metastaticized (spread) and I think it may have contributed to her fatigue. Had we the time, Dawn would have told us the story of each and every dog in her care. We were just too busy. We had a bounty of hounds upon us; climbing on us for hugs, leaving dirt and saliva on our clothes, leaning against our legs as we sat on the ground, poking their muzzles under our arms to perhaps squeeze in for some affection, pawing us to pet them. These are the dogs that no one wants. I wondered if it was a trait of the breed or a byproduct of their dire circumstances that made the basset hounds so hungry for our touch. Nature or nurture? Neither mattered. Though our laps had a maximum occupancy limit and our arms were only two (four) we did not turn any dog away. Every hound was VIP.
From the moment someone walks through the gate, Dawn can tell what type of pet owner they will be. It's instinctual. Animal. In telling us this secret, I gleaned our acceptance from her. Perhaps the ice queen/ mean valve also sized up Cash and me accurately. We were party poopers who, once inside, would only become increasingly judgemental of the melee rather than sling expensive drinks down our gilded throats. I will reluctantly concede to this possibility. Dawn knew my friend and me would be good visitors. One must learn a thing or two from working the door night after night, Sunday after Sunday.
The junior high discomfort of not being approved as part of the pack (no matter how biased the jury) is human. The bitchy comments whispered as slutty 20 year-olds gallivant past you is also human. The joy of being a part of the pack is animal. The need to be loved and to be petted once in a while?
posted by Katie at 5:43 PM
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