The Suffering of the Animals

By: JG LOWRY

It was April, windy and cold. Coming out of the New World Market, Martin saw two pigeons engaging in a tug of war over a frozen crust of bread. He stood amazed. Are they that hungry? It made him feel bad.

He went back into the store and bought a slice of cake. When he got outside, the pigeons were gone but he saw another dipping into the stale water in the gutter. Here, pal, he said, breaking off a piece of cake. The bird scuttled over, wings flapping. Two more came out of nowhere, diving for every crumb he dropped.

Hey, what are you doing? a voice called from the store. It was the owner, a bald man with eyebrows like mustaches. They’re dirty! They’re pests! They’re hungry, Martin answered. What harm am I doing? The man ran forward, clapping his hands and scattering the birds. I’m sick of cleaning up! You! You don’t have a job? Martin crushed the cake remaining in his hand, scattering it on the sidewalk. You don’t come back to my store no more! the man shouted. You don’t have to ask me! Martin shouted back.

His warm apartment was comforting. Sunlight falling on the wine-colored rug, his magazines and newspapers stacked neatly on the coffee table and JonBoy, Jessica’s parakeet, hopping around in his cage. You miss her, don’t you? Martin said, sticking his finger into the cage, JonBoy jumping onto it. I know. I do too.

He put away his groceries and walked to the window, his hands in his back pockets. One hundred and eight-two days now. She said she didn’t feel right. She had a headache. He wished he had paid more attention. Why don’t you go take a nap? he remembered saying. But she just sat, pressing her hand to her temple. I don’t feel right. He took her in a cab to the Emergency Room at Booth Hospital and sitting next to him on a metal chair, holding his hand, she died. A stroke, the doctors said. Nothing had seemed right since.

He couldn’t get the pigeons out of his mind. It didn’t make sense. Birds were always there, weren’t they? Bouncing around on the tiny lawn in front of the building, flitting from branch to branch in the trees. Who would think they didn’t have enough to eat? That animals could be hungry and suffering? Tomorrow, he decided, he would see that they got fed. In the morning he bought two bags of hot dog rolls at the new supermarket and walked over to Sherman Park, a tear drop in a sea of traffic, populated with neglected trees, broken benches and mutated shrubs that might have fallen from space. A man stood at the entrance, feeding an army of pigeons from a shopping bag. Need a hand? Martin said cheerfully. I got ‘em, the man said brusquely. These are my regulars. His baseball cap was pulled low over purple sunglasses. Martin started into the park to find his own pigeons. There aren’t any more, the man said. I get every one of them. Martin shrugged, looking around in frustration. Listen. You want to do something? Do the seagulls. Martin was astonished. Seagulls? What seagulls? At Coney Island, the man said, brushing off his hands and folding up his shopping bag. No one feeds them in the winter. They die by the hundreds. It’s a crime. Don’t they eat fish? Martin said. The man smiled bitterly. What fish? You think there are any fish in the ocean?

Go all the way to Coney Island to get mugged or knifed? Martin thought. But he had two bags of food, a long day to fill. He walked to the subway and asked directions at the token booth. The man said something he didn’t understand and seemed to point in the air. Martin walked down the stairs to the gloomy platform. A young woman stood on the opposite platform, her hands in the pockets of a vinyl coat that gleamed in the dim light. Does this train go to Coney Island? Martin called. Before she could answer, a train swept in and he got on. He was surprised when they rose from the tunnel, seeming to pass through the back yards of homes with above ground pools, rusting cars sinking into the earth like headstones, and by red bricked schools with athletic fields an unnatural green. He sat thinking. What kind of a world was it when there wasn’t enough food for people, the animals, everyone? He had driven a cab for thirty years, leased two others with his name, Burns Service, painted on the door. Year in and year out, without fail, young and old, rich and poor, bolted from the cab without paying. And he chased after them, fearless. It’s the way people are, Jessica used to say.

He got off at the last stop, crossing a walkway to the boardwalk, stopping to put on his new prescription sunglasses, surprised by the expanse of blue water, a spit of land in the distance with puffy clouds sitting over it. The Atlantic, he thought, regretting that he had never crossed it. He saw no threat. People rode bicycles and jogged. A man sat on a bench playing scales on a trumpet. In fact, it was cheerful. But where were the seagulls? He began walking, stopping from time to time. There! He saw some, sitting on the rocks that jutted into the waves like a broken backbone. And walking to the railing, he saw more, rows of them, sitting close to the boardwalk, like a fleet of planes ready to take to the sky, their feathers puffed up against the cold. He went down the stairs and walked towards them. They barely stirred until he opened the bag of rolls when there was a loud squawking and flapping of wings. Birds dropped from the sky, their shadows on the sand, the more daring ones hanging in front of him, catching the food in flight. For a moment, Martin feared that, in their frenzy, the birds would attack and peck him to death. But he quickly grew confident, spreading the food like a man sowing a field. By the time he opened the second bag, he was like that man in the park, feeling that every seagull on Coney Island was his friend. Tomorrow, he said when the bread was exhausted. I’ll be back, I promise.

Very fine, a woman said as he climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. She was sitting on a bench, wearing a leather jacket and red scarf. Might I suggest birdseed? she said. It’s more nutritious and lower in fat. Believe it or not, gulls have heart issues too. She looked expensive, Martin thought, her lustrous hair swept back, gold rings on her fingers. Her name was Ambrose, she said, offering her hand. To whom am I speaking? Martin introduced himself. Come, Marin. Let me buy you a drink.

My great-grandfather was a whaling captain, she said as they walked along the boardwalk. A dreadful man, full of guilt over what he had done. I live up there, she said, pointing over her shoulder without looking. Martin glanced at a high rise with white terraces looming over the boardwalk. My husband was a lawyer. He died young and left me rich. Now my daughter’s a lawyer and she’s exactly like him.

They turned into Sal’s, a hot dog stand with its windows enclosed, tables and chairs set at odd angles, chipped and battered as though they had spent their lives at sea. Theodore, good afternoon! Ambrose called to the counterman. He nodded, his face red and frowning under a knitted cap. He poured a shot of Scotch and brought it to her. And you, Martin? she said, raising her eyebrows. Oh, coffee I guess, he said. Theodore shook his head. Only espresso, he said gruffly. That sour, oily stuff Martin thought, but he agreed. Two years ago, he was a criminal, Ambrose whispered. A common criminal! He sold drugs! And now look! I think it’s just wonderful. She fixed her intense brown eyes on him. Now Martin, tell me, what brought you to our beautiful community? Oh, he said, after Theodore had set a tiny cup and saucer in front of him. He explained about the pigeons. How he had felt sorry for them. About the man who had sent him to Coney Island. Are you a widower, Martin? Divorced? My wife died six months ago, he said. Why? She shook her head. No matter. She raised her glass. To the animals, she said. Martin touched his cup to the glass and watched her knock back the Scotch. I have a heart condition, she said, fanning her face. You don’t drink? Martin. No, he said. Well, a beer sometimes. Good, she said. The movement needs strong, clean men.

She leaned across the table. Are you aware, Martin, that pigeons are being exterminated throughout the entire United States? Poisoned ruthlessly? This harmless, sweet creature! And are you aware of what goes on in slaughterhouses? Animals being killed. Having their throats slit while they are still alive? Why? So we can have our steaks and our by-pass surgery? I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? Theodore! she called, holding up her glass. You’ve never thought about it, have you? Not really, he said. She patted his hand, her leg brushing against his. Dear man! The Japanese are resuming the hunting of whales. Can you imagine? Just when we thought the slaughter was over!

Theodore brought her drink and she poured half of it into his espresso. Voila! You like Irish espresso? she said, beaming. Martin had to smile. A whale, she went on, is a highly intelligent, peaceful animal. There is no reason to kill them. None whatsoever! It’s blood lust, pure and simple! Doesn’t it make you angry? We could go on and on. The wild horses, the wolves, the penguins. In twenty years, they’ll all be gone. Oh, it’s so sad!

Closing her eyes, she gulped down the Scotch and laughed. It’s all right. I’m walking, not driving, right? Now, she said, her leg taking his prisoner, what do you think of all this? Martin shrugged. What can I do about it? he said. No, no, don’t think that way, she said. Listen to me. If someone came to your home and began smashing your windows you’d stop them, wouldn’t you? You’d confront them, you’d call the police. Am I right? Sure, he said. Well, that’s what’s happening, Martin. The same kind of criminals are destroying the planet’s wild life. Are we going to stand by and watch or are we going to do something about it? Her leg tapped his for emphasis.

He began to feel uncomfortable. Do what? he said. Take direct action, she said. Trash labs that experiment on animals! Knock down the fences restraining wild horses! Brave men and women must defend the whales! It’s a war! A war which must be fought by men like you! Men unafraid of the consequences! Men who will go to jail if necessary! Whoa, Martin said, pulling back his chair to free his leg. I’m not going to jail. You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like politics. Politics? she said, slumping in her chair. Please tell me how? Oh, people saying this is right, this is wrong. We’ll fix it my way. No, the other bunch says, do it our way. You know? Nothing changes. Things just get moved around. She sat aghast. But I thought you wanted to do something for the animals, Martin? I do. I’m going to feed them, he said. But that’s not enough, she said, sitting erect, her voice rising. You think you can come to Coney Island feed some seagulls and go home? You think that ends the problem? It won’t work! The world’s too complicated today, Martin! The oceans are being polluted! Developers are destroying animal habitats! Food sources are vanishing! How can you think of feeding pigeons while hundreds of species are being wiped off the planet every day? You’re doing exactly what the despoilers want you to do!

Why am I sitting here getting bawled out? Martin thought. I don’t work for her. OK, he said. OK what? she said, smiling encouragement. OK, I’m going home. It was nice to meet you, Ambrose, he said, getting to his feet. Her eyes narrowed. I’ve not finished speaking! How dare you! A gentleman never leaves before a lady gives him permission. Well that’s too bad, I’m doing it anyway, he said harshly.

He walked out onto the boardwalk. He heard footsteps behind him and turned in time to see Ambrose, her mouth a slash of anger. You old fool! she cried, slapping him in the face. His sunglasses flew off, bouncing along the boardwalk. We’ll send you to the slaughterhouse! she cried, walking off.

Martin stood rubbing his cheek, looking at his glasses. A lens had broken loose, throwing a prism of green light. A young man stopped his bicycle. Go kick her ass! buddy. Martin felt like crying. I don’t have the money, he said, picking up his glasses. This is just the coolest place, the young man said, wheeling off. Martin put his glasses in his pocket and stood, not knowing what to do.

He took the subway home. Everything more than two feet in front of him was a blur. Why? he asked himself, over and over. What was wrong with her? All I wanted to do was feed the seagulls.