All the felines, minus a few extra lynxes
[Image ID: The poem “One Source of Bad Information”, by Robert Bly.
There’s a boy in you about three
years old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
Thousand Years. Sometime it’s a girl.
The child had to make up its mind
How to save you from death. He said things like:
“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”
You live with this child, but you don’t know it.
You’re in the office, yes, but live with this boy
At night. He’s uninformed, but he does want
To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
You survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
Five don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.
/end id]
Consider. A human wakes up in a strange medical bay, with an alien doctor standing over them. Turns out their shuttle crashed, and the alien ship only just managed to teleport the, on board in time.
By some miracle, the doctor explains, they escaped with only minor injuries. Some burns, a few scratches and “several small wounds. We’re not sure what caused them.”
“Wounds?”
“Small holes in your ear lobes. Possibly they were old wounds and unrelated to the accident, but either way, our doctors were able to heal them for you. There’s not even any scarring.”
The human pauses. Thinks for a minute. “Wait… you unpierced my ears?!”
“I… Suppose we did? Is that a problem?”
“Er, not exactly. It can be redone. though it’s not gonna be fun. But my people do that to ourselves on purpose. It’s self-ornamental… I don’t know the word. We decorate ourselves with small stones and bits of shaped metal or plastic.”
“Oh!! I’m sorry, that’s a fairly rare behavior among sapients. Why, if I may ask?”
“uh. It… Looks cool? I guess?”
“…My experience with humans is limited, but I gather that’s the reason for many of your behaviors.”
*from the next bay over comes the anguished scream of your co-pilot*
“WHERE THE FUCKING FUCK ARE MY TATTOOS?!”
