The Lioness and her Cub

One day, out of the blue, my seven-year-old daughter presented me with her theory on life. “I think that before we were humans, everyone was an animal, and before we were animals we were insects, and before we were insects we were plants, and before we were plants we were rocks or minerals”.” Interesting cosmovision, or perhaps her very personal take on the “ontology recapitulates phylogeny” of my beloved grad school days: humans developed to a higher order just as life on Earth did. More or less. If we can be considered a higher order, that is. And if I remember correctly.

Having been raised a Catholic, who then rather lapsed in her wild oats-sowing days, I had tried to raise Cecilia nominally as a Catholic. So how did this vision square, I inquired? “Well, when you die you go to heaven and God sends you back to Earth as whatever you’re supposed to be, but humans don’t remember it.” All right. Hybrid Catholicism.

But the real fun of this theory was that she started to tell me what everyone we knew used to be. She informed me that I used to be a lioness – referring probably to my mane of unruly hair, and perhaps – I like to flatter myself – to my fierce protectiveness of my offspring. Her father, on the other hand, was a hamster. Why? “Because he’s super neat and always primping himself”, referring no doubt to his “no me despeines” (“don’t mess up my hair”) obsession. Her parents: a lioness and a hamster. From the mouths of babes: I did, indeed, eat him alive.

Her friend Andrea, blond, sweet, kind-hearted yet overbearingly hard to take, was a golden lab puppy. She is cute and awkward like her former canine self, “but she’s like a puppy – she wants too much attention.” So true.

This became a game in which we debated which each person was. You can only debate people you know well, because their animal alter ego reflects not only their appearance but also their character. Her friend Gemma, a graceful ballerina, wasn’t a swan but a swallow because of her dark, Mediterranean complexion. Unlikeable, cold people often ended up being fish or reptiles.

It’s funny how she was so often spot-on with her observations. My favorites were my friend Nestor and my boyfriend at the time, Enrique. Nestor is a masculine, barrel-chested “macho ibérico”. He’s got quite an ego about his own manhood which he doesn’t take pains to conceal. When I told him Cecilia’s theory, he said with all the puffed-up pride of a manly man, “And I’m a bear, right?” I asked Cecilia. Her answer: “A bear? No way! He’s a bat.” A bat? Why? “Because he looks like one.” I guess his face can take on a pinched quality at times. Needless to say Nestor’s ego was slightly deflated, but only slightly because after all, an ego like that has a life of its own, and he knew deep down he was really a bear; she just wasn’t ready to recognize it.

Enrique was tall and gangly. “He’s an ostrich,” declared my soothsayer Ceci. And it fit him like a glove: the kind of tall, angular man who never quite grew into his body, the head moving back and forth seemingly independent of the long legs; think Shaggy’s walk in Scooby Doo. Not to mention the personality that in time revealed itself to be none too kind. Perfect!

So what was Cecilia? A lynx. Why? Lynxes are quick, and Cecilia is a quick runner. They tire easy, and while she doesn’t so much tire, she does get bored easily when an activity doesn’t engage her. And, as she said, “They have pretty eyes like me.” Well, now that’s healthy self-esteem for you!

A lynx born to a lioness and a hamster. When Cecilia was just days old, I propped up that tiny baby, looked her in the eye and told her what I already sensed in my heart of hearts: “It’s just you and me.” Just two felines: the lioness and her cub.

By the way, if you ever see her, ask her what you used to be!