My Alien, My Friend
I received a rogue transmission on the Internet. Even though I had trouble believing what it said, I had to discover if it was true. So I travelled to a distant place and there I found the alien, just as promised. I transported the alien to my home and locked it behind secure bars. I fed it what I had been told it would eat and occasionally let it out under strict supervision. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that I discovered the strange story of the alien race.
They come from a land with no seasons and days only as long as nights. They live on a small outcropping in a sea of heat and humidity. The sky is streaked with electrical fire all year long. Yet, the lightning does not cause the only thunder—the voices of the aliens thunder with the dawn and the sunset. Like ancient Pagan Gods they greet the coming and ending of the day. After nightfall the aliens turn into statues or at least the semblance of them. It would be a rare human eye indeed that could discern the aliens from the twisted monoliths reaching like pillars to the sky upon which they rest.
The aliens have freedom that humans have never known. In an instant they can move with the wind or vanish into the labyrinth that erupts from the soil and touches the heavens. There is little that can avoid their scrutiny and little that passes unnoticed. Like a gang delinquent teenagers they live in this world of dark wonders with only their passion and their history to guide them. The world is theirs for the taking. In this place they raise their young who take five years to learn what it is to be an alien. This training is essential to their well-being and survival. They learn what foods are good to eat, what to avoid, how to deal with their fellow creatures, when to cry out, when to run, and when to take a life partner. Much of what they learn we will never understand no matter how much we might try. It is as different from us as night from day.
Physically they are superior to us in many ways but they require their homeland to prosper. They have four limbs. Two are used for grasping and two for locomotion. They move much faster than we do with their locomotor limbs. They can be in one place and simultaneously relocate with awe-inspiring speed. Radiating from their bodies are soft extensions of their lofty spirits that glisten mostly pure white in the sun. They breathe but not as we do. They take advantage of every wisp of air that enters their bodies. Yet, they are easily poisoned by pollution—even minute amounts.
They are used to constantly amusing themselves and become bored easily. Many objects of interest must be presented to my alien or it will begin to wither and die. I have seen it suffer from boredom and the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.
My alien speaks to my heart by placing its head there. I call this “hugging.” This manner of speech touches me in ways I cannot express in words.
Like us they have a huge cranium, a language, a civilization and a culture. They live in a society that knows no murder and no hate. Like us they have disputes over property and mates. The aliens are monogamous and choose their companions for life. They have a communal life and are never alone; they have no word for loneliness in their language except for “pain” or “suffering.” Rather than fight they choose to dart away from danger seeking ever more distant lands in which to live—much as the Native Americans did against the flood of European settlers.
I have no idea what they eat; I can only guess from the food my alien eats when I offer it. It is certain that their diet is unknown—they have no words for food—if they do I am unable discern them. Their language is a kind of body sign language of which I only know the fundamentals. I speak it like a baby alien and poorly. I sense that there is much more to it, many nuances, but I will never master them.
Their history stretches back 80 million years into a world long past except on the strange archipelago in which they live. They have thrived in groups of hundreds for all that time. Yet soon their alien culture may disappear. Recently they have been sought after as slaves. Their unique abilities and amazing intelligence are desired to adorn the homes of another, less spectacular creature. Their captors have only been around for about 4 million years. These slave masters even enslave their own kind. They place the aliens in small home prisons and force them to act like circus clowns. They are breeding them as pets now, taking them from their parents and forcing them to live in a world foreign to their natures. In this new world they now know loneliness even if they have no word for it. Pain and suffering are their constant companions here.
Alien rescues and sanctuaries are the places to look. They cannot return to their homeland and need intensive care and understanding until they die. Some of them can live up to 100 years. Give them the best life you can or support those that do and find a way to help protect their homeland.
My alien is an umbrella cockatoo. Chloe is my alien, my friend. She is 25 and might live to be 80. She was hatched and “hand-raised” by humans but her heart longs for Mom and Dad in the flock she never knew. Her body longs for the babies she will never have. Her spirit will always seek the wind and the freedom of the sky, the hatch-right of her kind. No amount of love will ever replace what was taken from her by the greed of humankind. Her heart can never be whole.
Please support your local sanctuaries and rescues. The lives of many aliens depend on the generosity of the “master race.”
(C) Copyright 2008 Don Scott, All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.