The Menagerie

A reflection on things that require restraint.

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There's this menagerie in my backyard. I never asked for it but it came with everything else I inherited. It seemed cool at first—and it definitely got me lots of attention—until I realized how hard it was to control my animals.

First, there was Misery, the whale. And wail did she ever. It was mostly incoherent blubbering but from what I could gather, life was a series of tragic misfortunes conspiring to make her miserable. I don’t think she has ever smiled. It was one whale song after another: the Premium Whale Feed tasted like expired shrimp meat, the Luxury Standard Marine Enclosure was way too small and should have been graded “Hobo Standard”, all my friends were “idiotic morons”, what had she ever done to be sentenced to this pathetic place, the food sucks, her "goldfish tank" sucks, life sucks.

There are some who enjoy listening to whale songs. Most people were okay with Misery the first month or so. They gave her lots of attention, even asking for encores and such. Misery was entertaining. When the excitement died down though, she took a turn for the worse. She wailed through the night, blubbered through the mornings, and moaned all day. Soon, even the whale-lovers began moving away.

Along with Misery came Ire. Ire was a mangy old dog with an iron will: as long as he could see you, he would never stop trying to bite your head off. Once, a troupe of neighbourhood kids came by and giggled at the way Ire lapped up water. Two minutes into their teasing, he lost it, barking until every bird in the neighbourhood started flying south early. I think he even managed to nip a little girl’s finger.

Ire was near impossible to control. Even after I locked him in a cage, he’d bark at every friend and neighbour who came to visit. Everything was a challenge, a competition, a threat. He had no mercy for harmless public servicemen, either. Nowadays, no one visits anymore.

When the flow of people first started to thin, I found some comfort in Mirth and Mockery—one monkey with two faces. On her better days, her laughs were infectious and she could light up a room with smiles. On her worse days, she would hang off railings and chandeliers, shatter vases with throw pillows, and tear the house asunder in a torrent of Johnny-Depp-driven glee. It was all too funny for her. My visitors found Mirth a delight until she began mocking their words, garbling contexts and twisting meanings.

Mockery behaved the worst the day a lawyer friend of mine visited. His father had recently been diagnosed with cancer and he was torn at the news. Mirth tried to cheer him up but when it proved fruitless, Mockery stepped in and laughed every time he choked on his words.

I didn’t hear from that friend again for a while.

When things continued to worsen, Paranoia surfaced. Paranoia was an entire meerkat herd but only one meerkat ever appeared in the open at once. No entity, living or otherwise, went unchecked and everything was considered a threat to their very existence. Whether it was a child, a fly, or a leaf, the reaction never changed. One meerkat would emerge and inspect the surroundings and then they'd all scurry further out of sight.

At first, I thought Paranoia would remain hidden away from public eyes, as long as there were safe places to hide. Later, I learned nothing was considered safe—everything was fatal. And all things fatal needed considerable examination. I found Paranoia hiding in nooks and crannies everywhere. Some huddled in closets, others shied in drawers, still others crouched behind sofas, in teacups, and under area rugs. If the other animals had not driven my visitors away, finding Paranoia spying on them from behind the shower curtain surely did.

As neighbours disappeared and friends made other plans, Pride redoubled her efforts. She was like Mirth and Misery in that respect: less attention meant more potential for attention. The fewer eyes turned to her, the brighter her Gucci-patterned cage and Tiffany-blue eyes shone. The fewer ears turned to her, the lustier she sang. She had a voice like an untrained parrot but that didn’t matter because she hailed from a faraway, exotic land. Those that once cooed over her beautiful feathers avoided visiting again for fear of her absurdly loud croaking. Any neighbours still left joined the others. No one wanted to be kept up by Pride’s midnight trumpeting.

By now, as you might have guessed, I’ve lost some friends, most of my neighbours, and all of my visitors. It’s demanding, desperate work. Won’t they ever give up? Some days, their enclosures weaken and I almost can’t be bothered to keep them under lock and key. It’s tempting, really. What if I just let them all go? I’d never have to deal with them again. They’d be someone else’s responsibility. I could stop caring and let them do whatever they want. I could let loose.

And then I check myself. I can’t let loose. Because this is my menagerie and they are my animals—no one else’s. When I have no visitors, they are my company. When I have no will, they are my strength. When I have nothing else, I will have my menagerie.

I am their keeper as they are my muse.