Wildlife Documentaries: Not Just For Stoners Anymore!

When I was livin' the dazed life during my pot-smoking years, one of my favorite things to do was toke up, eat tortilla chips dipped in cream cheese and salsa (try it, it's orgasmic), and watch wildlife documentaries. In fact, I knew a lot of stoners who enjoyed these types of programs. Though, for them, I think it had less to do with educational merit and more to do with not being able to reach the remote.

Anyway.

There were certain subjects, however, in which I was not particularly interested. Snakes, for one. I don't really care for them, and wildlife documentarians always seem to profile the kinds of snakes who are able to dislocate their jaw and swallow entire Mexican villages. The insect shows were another that I often skipped. I don't have a problem with insects per se, but when the camera is that damn close and they all have eyes like Heather Graham, I'm a bit uncomfortable.

For the most part, though, wildlife documentaries provided me with good, solid entertainment. Nonetheless, I hadn't watched one in years, at least since I put down the bong -- and also because John and I are cable-less peasants. Until the other night, when I caught a show on PBS (yup, PBS on a Saturday night -- there are only two words for that: Party. Animal.) profiling the wild horses of the Rocky Mountains. Horses aren't as fascinating to me as, say, manatees, or orphaned flying squirrel babies, but I have nothing against them -- and it had been years since I watched a show like this -- so I settled in for an hour of wholesome viewing pleasure.

The wild horsey program was filmed and narrated by this fantastic holster-hipped lesbian, whose name escapes me. She spent several years intermittently tracking and following a particular band of wild horses in the Rockies. From what I understand, wild horses live and travel in small packs, led by a dominant mare (feminist horses! -- who knew?!?), a few additional mares, their foals, immature horses of both sexes, as well as a lead stallion. Sometimes there are also less-dominant males in the pack, who prefer to stay on the fringes of the band. These are the gay uncles, I'm assuming.

Most of the show was centered around one horse: a beautiful, nearly stark-white creature, whom the filmmaker christened with the pretty lame-ass name of Cloud. We watched Cloud grow from an unsure, wobbly-legged foal into a handsome full-grown stallion. We also got to know several of the other horses in his life, including his doting mama, his siblings, his pack's feisty and protective lead stallion, and his friend, a blue roan paint horse that, after being plucked from the wild and rounded up for auction, the filmmaker ended up adopting. My favorite amongst these was one of Cloud's sisters, who was a total slut. She hadn't even arrived at full maturity, and the amazing little tramp was shaking her ass in the face of every male on the mountainside. I expect to see her on "Maury" next week.

The whole experience of this show was really insightful and a lot of fun. True, it was a bit different watching this kind of program stone-cold sober -- mainly because I could actually follow what was going on. Cloud and his entourage just warmed my heart; they lived basically and simply, looked out for one another with unconditional devotion, and asked nothing more than the necessities: a little pasture, a little love, a little sun. In a way, I envy them.

All this got me to thinking how cool it would be to become a wildlife documentary filmmaker. I mean, I could never do it. There's no way I have the physical stamina to schlep up and down mountains and through rain forests with a camera strapped to my shoulder and a backpack on my back, lugging a little red wagon stocked with books, all manner of Body Shop products, and an endless supply of Sour Patch Kids. I also don't possess the scientific knowledge to know much about my subjects. You're talking to a guy who dropped high school biology mid-year so he could VOLUNTARILY join the crayons-and-circles-of-paper class.

But observing, documenting, and living with the animals in such an intimate way would be so intriguing. Which led me to the logical thought, Hey! I could do this without leaving the comfort of my own home! So I, inspired by a horse-loving lesbian I've never met, spent the day yesterday observing the cats and making mental notes of their every move. It would help if, when you get to the next section, you imagine a soft British voice reading the words aloud; this will give the full effect of my very own wildlife documentary. Ladies and gentleman, enjoy the show.

National PornogrGeographic Presents
"Tracking the Elusive Wild Housecat"
with your host, Donn Brody-Streep
(sorry, my agent FORCED me to change my last name)

"It is 5 a.m. Our subjects have been up all night: playing, scratching their scratching post, rolling around on the kitchen carpet in an attempt to clog the evil vacuum cleaner yet again, and tearing up and down the hallway, thereby terrorizing the downstairs neighbors. Our two subjects are a breed of the elusive wild housecat; there is a lean orange male named Fergus, and a rotund black-and-white female named Claire.

"When their handlers have not gotten out of bed by 8:00, Fergus begins jumping atop the bed and darting across their heads before fleeing the room...only to return moments later and do the same thing again -- repeatedly. Fergus, typically quiet, is something of a chatterbox in the mornings. More accurately, he's a squeakbox, since the creature doesn't seem to know how to meow. Claire is fairly silent, less interested in her handlers and more focused on sitting on a single square foot of a corner of the aforementioned kitchen carpet. Indeed, this is the spot she stays for most of the day and night.

"Once the handlers have started their day, Fergus continues squeaking with great urgency, though nothing seems to be wrong. The food dish is mostly full, the water is changed and clean, and the litterbox is freshly de-pooped. Having tired himself out, Fergus retires to the living room window, where he gazes into the top of a huge tree and wishes bloody death on those fucking birds.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Whenever the handlers walk by, she emits a small meow and rolls with some effort onto her back. One would think this is an open invitation for a belly rub. However, every time the handlers reach down to pet her, she jumps away, startled, as if she's never seen them before in her life. She calms herself by going to the food dish and eating.

"As the morning progresses, Fergus grows bored of his window seat, hops down, and slips under the bed. This is what wild housecat experts call his "happy place". He curls up in a ball and falls asleep. This is how he spends the remainder of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Occasionally she gets up to eat, but then returns.

"Throughout the afternoon, Fergus is conspicuously absent, while his sister stays on high alert at her station. When a handler walks by with a particular footstep she doesn't like, she jumps back, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her post.

"Late afternoon. Fergus has emerged from his happy place, soft and warm and eyes barely open. He rubs across the calves of his handlers, ignores Claire, and has a drink of water and a bite to eat. After this, he disappears into the litterbox for a few minutes, in view of his sister who is watching from her corner of carpet. He gives her a disgusted look. She jumps up, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her corner.

"As darkness falls, Fergus is snuggled on the bed with his handlers, one of whom is reading a book, the other watching a movie containing aliens, spaceships, and Pia Zadora. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire rises wearily and now she, too, must use the litterbox. She is in there for an inordinately long period of time, as after she has pottied, she seems to enjoy scratching the hell out of the interior side of the litterbox. Once the novelty wears off, she goes to the food dish and returns to her corner of carpet.

"Night has arrived and the handlers are turning in. Fergus lays at their feet awhile, until he's sure they're asleep, before hopping off the bed to prepare for a night of play.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet."