in its own glass box
and for thirty seconds he plays
"What a Wonderful World."
In the last three seconds, he shocks the rat.
This is followed by ninety beats of silence.
And then the cycle begins again.
As she describes it to me
I can't help thinking
how familiar this is--one minute
Louis Armstrong singing
and the next--
some fever or wreck, some impossible mistake.
And I sit holding a spoon,
unable to lift it to my mouth, unable
to put it down.
This strain of rats descends
from a circus in the 1800s. Their ancestors
swung on satin-ribboned trapezes
and leaped through tiny rings of fire.
Now, none of those skills can save them.
And here's the thing:
a rat who isn't shocked,
who only watches,
panics too. That is empathy.
Feeling what another creature feels.
But sometimes it's too much to ask
a person to inhabit
the strange region of a foreign heart.
Once, when I was in a glut of pain,
I said to a friend,
Just take an hour and imagine
this is happening to you.
She looked straight ahead
and said, I don't want to.
swung on satin-ribboned trapezes
and leaped through tiny rings of fire.
Now, none of those skills can save them.
And here's the thing:
a rat who isn't shocked,
who only watches,
panics too. That is empathy.
Feeling what another creature feels.
But sometimes it's too much to ask
a person to inhabit
the strange region of a foreign heart.
Once, when I was in a glut of pain,
I said to a friend,
Just take an hour and imagine
this is happening to you.
She looked straight ahead
and said, I don't want to.
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