…I don’t want to be a penguin. Five minutes spent watching “March of the Penguins” has made living life as a Giant Redwood look more appealing. Seriously – that used to be my worst fear: that I would come back as a tall tree with a lifespan measured in centuries, rooted to one spot while forest fires raged around me and small woodland creatures burrowed around in my body. Unable to speak, or move, or even scratch an itch unless the wind is merciful. But now? It can always be worse, can’t it?
Poor penguins. Whoa, wait – that wasn’t the “mother of all blizzards” already? I think I’ve found hell.
I used to think that if I had to come back to life as some sort of miserable animal – miserable, as opposed to being a majestic predator or a pampered pet – I’d want to be a cockroach. They have a relatively short lifespan. Maybe if I were a really good cockroach, I could work off whatever karma landed me in a cupboard or couch springs, or the back of a TV set, or in somebody’s garbage at the bottom of a Dumpster. My punishment would be blessedly short. But no – not only do cockroaches live for about a year, they can live for a whole week after being decapitated. The only reason they die, then, is from dehydration. They can live for a month without food. Talk about walking around like a–cockroach–with its head cut off!
If reincarnation was an option, but you had to spend your next life as anything but a human being, what living creature would you choose to inhabit?