My brother’s not a particular animal lover, and he’s especially averse to dogs. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he’s just being contrary, provocative (it would be in character) but I don’t think so. We grew up in the same family, I have an affinity with animals (any and all) and he, with birds (any and all). Our sister loves animals too, but perhaps less vehemently than me. I don’t know how she feels about birds. There’s no accounting for taste – no rhyme, no reason. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not not glad that he loves something living as opposed to humans (he’s an anthropocentrist, a humanist – I’m very much darkly the opposite) and I love, I really love, how much he loves birds. It’s just I can’t feel it myself. I wouldn’t ever hurt one. I would help one if it was in trouble. I find them by turns appealing, fascinating, interesting, graceful, impressive (seagulls and ravens and are my favourite), it’s just that I don’t have a huge emotional connection with them.
My brother’s love for birds is as early born as mine for animals. Whilst he was in his bedroom rehabilitating fledglings that our cat had mauled, hand feeding them milk from a incongruously maternal pipette with a swooping motion, I was busy making woodlice houses or trying to bring home animals, any animals, claiming they were desperate. Often they were well cared for neighbourhood pets with collars and tags, I was more like an underage dog stealer really. I craved animal company. You know those kids you see in rapt delight at the zoo, that was me. It’s unintelligible to me that all humans don’t feel that wonder – that privilege – that lies in being near an animal. But am pleased that my brother feels it in the presence of birds.