With no disrespect meant towards the dead butterfly I found fluttering in the breeze on the side of the highway today, when I was taking its portrait I couldn’t help but be overcome singing a song I have worked very hard to erase from the sound banks of my memory.
Once upon last year my wonderfully kooky pal Heidi was getting married (to see photos of his stag party extravaganza click here). In true Heidi fashion, he chose the 1970s French turned English pop hit Butterfly (by Danyel Gerard) to be his wedding song. He gave a recording of the song to another friend, a musician we’ll call Beardy, who was to play the song at the wedding. I happened to hitch a ride with Beardy to a music festival the weekend before the wedding when he was in the last minute midst of trying to learn the song. We spent a disproportionate amount of the 8 hour drive listening to Butterfly and were subsequently infected with a near fatal case of earworm. As a result, the majority of the festival weekend was spent fighting the compulsion to prance around our campsite interpretive dancing and rabidly howling, “Butterfly, my Butterfly, now I know you must be free. Butterfly, don’t flutter by, stay a little while with me“. If you’re curious to hear the song in question click here.
And, if you’re still with me after that extremely roundabout detour, here is a study of a dead butterfly on the highway:
As winter’s death grip slowly strangles more and more light out of each day I’m becoming suspicious that the little creatures who reside with us are being affected by seasonal affective disorder even more than I am. How else can you explain the recent rise in mouse suicide rates at our house (this is the second in the past two weeks … you can read about the first one here)? Some may claim we’re encouraging the SAD varmints’ sorrowful spiral into suicide by carelessly leaving implements of death lying all around the house. However, I would argue (as demonstrated by the photo below) that we are taking active suicide prevention measures and if the little mice are truly that miserable they have the right to end their own lives if they so choose.
I must confess, I have never killed anything, not even a mouse. Some rural Canadian upbringing I had.
In light of this fact perhaps you can understand my bizarre photo-centric reaction to witnessing a wee mouse end his life in the mousetrap in my office while pursuing a piece of popcorn slathered in peanut butter.
My first reaction was of course to remove the dead rodent from the trap. However, I found myself unable to do so, even after telling myself the mouse was most likely severely depressed and had probably committed suicide.
So what did I do instead? I took some photos of it and had my roommate Michael flush it down the toilet. Don’t ask me why I photographed this mouse’s suicide, just send me a cat, it seems obvious to me now that I need one.