Mammalian

Man is the only animal that goes out of this world as he came in—on milk.

William Osler

I've noticed lately, that my separate selves are growing more and more autonomous. Last evening, for example, as I tied my walking shoes, my feet grew tired of waiting for the second double knot. Without warning, they jumped up, ran out the door, and headed down the graveled Kaw River levee without me. I caught up with myself, of course. My mind, the tireless governor, persuaded my feet to jog in place until I joined them near the levee entrance off Sunset Avenue.

I understand my body's recent desire to act independently. Who could blame her? After more than half a century of working for the governor, Body has grown tired—tired of hauling the boss to and from the office, tired of being immobilized in cubicles and meeting rooms for hours on end. She's sick to death of being curbed by good manners, of being hidden beneath fabric, hampered by underwear and outrageous shoes. Body is tired of the straitjacket, tired of restrictions, tired of the contradiction of being a holy temple rated X.

I'm not alarmed much anymore when I sense a part of me has gone off on its own. With each passing year, I become more conscious of a separation process gearing up internally. I can only guess that I'm preparing in some obscure way for the final curtain's fall, when Body will exit stage left, and I will exit stage right.

When does it begin, this awareness of having more than a physical existence? As far as I can remember, I began to ponder the nature of my being back in elementary school soon after discovering my status as a mammal. It was my fourth grade teacher, Miss Butterfield, who introduced me to the bewildering and somewhat appalling notion. I still remember the afternoon she fastened an oversized poster with the curious heading Homo sapiens to the blackboard, lifted her wooden pointer, and tapped it three times against her desk. Three taps meant that Miss Butterfield was broaching a serious subject and that we must sit up straight and give her our undivided attention. She began the lesson on scientific classification by explaining to the class that we all belong to a kingdom. My restless classmate Richard, who had a talent for answering questions that hadn't been asked, shot up his hand and blurted out, "I know. I know—it's the kingdom of God!"

Miss Butterfield studied the floor for a moment before facing Richard squarely. "I am talking about a scientific kingdom, Richard. I am talking about the kingdom Animalia." Raising her voice, she pronounced the word carefully, pausing briefly between syllables, "An-i-mal-i-a."

I was glad for the Latin word. There was something about the serious, exacting nature of science that called out for song, for the melodious, lilting tone of Latin. I was delighted to know I belonged to a kingdom. Perhaps a king and queen would be involved, perhaps a charming prince, a golden-haired princess in a billowing gown.

Miss Butterfield rapped the pointer against the blackboard, directing us in rhythmic unison as we repeated, animalia, animalia, animalia, followed by mammalia, mammalia, mammalia.

It was not until she displayed the second poster that the implication of our science lesson began to dawn on me. Under the heading What is a Mammal? were sketches of an assortment of animals assembled in some sanctuary that closely resembled the paintings of Eden on my Sunday school room wall. There were zebras, coyotes, gophers, giraffes, monkeys, panda bears—a virtual Who's Who of Noah's Ark. To my alarm, a man and woman were included in this bizarre group portrait. What was this couple, this modern version of Adam and Eve (they'd apparently traded in their fig leaves for polyester attire) doing in a chart headed What is a Mammal? Mammals were animals. Miss Butterfield had made that perfectly clear. Surely she was not suggesting that humans were animals.

Baffled, I fixed my eyes on...