A Gilded Cage

My heart goes out to the family of the woman killed by the whale, but my brain has latched on to the idea of a killer whale in captivity. I Think of them in their tanks, sending out their clicks, and getting back the close smooth walls, like a man in a padded cell, calling to anyone, getting back only the echo of his own voice.

I suppose it wouldn't be as bad for the ones born in captivity, knowing only the sterility of their tank, but still, the repetition of the day after day routine, swim in a circle, do their tricks, get fed, swim in more circles, the monotony of the waters sameness.

They'd get used to the sounds. There wouldn't be that many, most coming from above, or the under water speakers, like invisible holes to some other place. And the same old sights day after day, what ever piece of sky there is to see, if there is one at all.

There's the fragile ones who live outside the tank, shuffling along, dragging themselves across the strange unremarkable rock. And the one who feeds, who compels, who touches. What do they make of their trainers?

I feel worse about the ones not born in captivity, who remember the depth and breath of the ocean, the sounds of the living earth, an untold number of astonishing sights. It must be worse for the ones who know they're in a cage, who remember who their captors are, what they look like, who it is wanting them to perform tricks day after day.

Maybe it's not like that? Maybe they're just dumb animals, living large, hand fed, getting their tongues scratched? Maybe they enjoy their gilded cage?