A Bone to Pick. Or Gnaw.

Lately the Ringo drums have been replaced by Derick William Dalton and his wife laughing while watching the murder mystery show Bones. They also ooh and ahh over the human remains, dried and dessicated, soggy and putrescent, burned crispy, or in a post-woodchipper amorphous mess on the table. To be honest, they just make me hungry. They turn loose all those crunchy sweet beetles to clean the bones and I drool. Sometimes the bodies come in with juicy fly larvae on them, and I feel rumbly in my tumbly. On occasion they show remains before being discovered and they have crows or kitties or sharks or crabs taking a nibble. Here I get jealous first, and then hungry. Sure I love humans, but that can be taken two ways.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. I really don't know how humans taste. Not for lack of opportunity. However, when I get past my culinary attraction to the remains, I note one of the underlying conflicts of the series: science versus religion. As an animal, and a reptile what's more, I am in a uniquely objective position to comment. The rats in the terrarium next to me in the pet store long ago would have said "position to be judgemental", but they long since died of old age and I'm still around. So I don't give a rat's you-know-what and neither do they.

What the writers describe as science in the Brennan-Booth debates is really atheism. Science is about what's measurable. God isn't, so he (or she or it or them) is non-disprovable. As lack of evidence is not evidence of absence, atheism isn't science but a valid religion. It's based on belief in an unprovable absence. The writers don't need to adjust the conflict, because it works well. They need to change the labels so -

Oh, sweet! This episode is about a saltwater floater! That gives the skeleton such a delightful bouquet and softened texture to the palate, adding a lightly abrasive crust and a piquant marine aftertaste.

Bathtub Shelly

At the risk of making readers feel voyeuristic, a peek into my hygiene regimen sheds some light upon the frustrations of depending on a mammal for support. A male mammal, what's worse.

Every other day or so, I am rudely awakened from my cozy cubby by Derick William Dalton's right hand pulling me out. One would think he'd know what "hiss" means by now. Snakes use the phrase to imply the listener has a sexy aroma. Turtles, on the other hand, use it as a gauntlet-dropping final straw to the rules of engagement. Of course, that's only because running away isn't an option. We usually just hide in our shells and laugh as predators break their teeth trying to get at us.

I am then carried to the bathroom sink where his grubby kids wash their hands after pooping (sometimes). Here I must note that he very kindly sets the water temperature to a perfectly toasty temperature. But then he leaves me there for forty minutes, and by that time it's chilly. The first ten minutes is divine. I only need to come up for air three times, and I get all I can drink. But then I have to go, you know? So there I sit in pee water getting colder and colder. Of course, this is the one time when DWD decides to write. While I'm losing heat to dilute urine, he's blah blah blah starship engines, or blah blah blah alien pathophysiology.

I crawl as high up the side as I can, and stretch out my neck. There he is, sitting with his back to me. Blah blah blah futuristic geo-political-religious commentary. Boring! Well, except the part where the bad guy gets sucked into a spaceship drive, or out into the vacuum without a helmet, or has dental work with no anesthesia. But in the meantime, I've got a floater in here. I'm no microbiologist, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of a bath?

Finally, he comes in to drain the cesspool and wash me off. Then there's the fresh earthworm or macaroni and fish, as his handwashing-challenged kids call the food pellets. Good food under a snuggly heat lamp. Not bad.

Now if he wouldn't pretend to be Ringo Starr on the drums while I'm trying to sleep, life would be good.