Muggles Furtrap leans over his work bench and closely studies the honey bowl he carved and now polishes with his ruby red polishing cloth.
He presses his hand-paws against the workbench surface and arches his back, looking up at the lacing of roots that covers the expanse of his nest-den’s ceiling.
Muggles Furtrap is one of the seniors in the Speckle Bath Werble Colony nestled deep in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
“Why,” he finds himself wondering this early morning, “do so many human-people seem feverishly compelled to avoid love, happiness?”
“Why do they invest so heavily in misery?” he wonders. His soft furry head wags side to side, his hand-paws now busily cleaning his spectacles.
“They avoid joy, peace of mind, fun, and, most of all, love, as if they each of these were a plague of biblical proportions.” Just like the lacing of roots his eyes now scanned, a happy life is connected by the singular purpose of living as ones self to the fullest measure.
“After all,” he thoughts took him deeper now, “do not trees start as seeds and, after drinking in the nutrition of water and soil, grow to become the very beings they are, wondrous trees of all shapes and sizes? Never do they betray their purpose. When wildflowers move from seed to bloom, they are not deterred by the malignant designs of outsiders.”
Muggles Furtrap hunches over his workbench again and returns to the task of buffing the nearly completed honey bowl, beautiful in its sweet-grained design.
“Ah,” Muggles Furtrap sings out loud, placing the polishing cloth on the bench before him. “What to do, what to do, what to do with those lovely two.”
Muggles Furtrap has been pausing life-moments left and right for the two human people that are now his present task, his present assignment. A man and woman with the chance at love and both to afraid to let it breathe.
Muggles Furtrap’s furrowed brow tells us he is worried. The two human people are both equally afraid of love, this he knows. They struggle with how to shed the fear, self-doubt and the all-too-common human people mistake of keeping fear alive with the poisonous brushstrokes of generalities and the clenched jaws of their respective histories. All men are or all women are are phrases lethal to any real understanding.
All Werbles know only too well that in all of human people history, little good has come from debilitating generalities like these: wars have been fought, many have died and been forever mangled based on generalities like these. All genocide is rooted in poisonous generalities and, for the Werbles, the gradual decay of the capacity to believe in so many human people hearts.
This upsets Muggles Furtrap as it upsets all gentle kind-hearted Werbles.
Muggles Furtrap picks up his polishing cloth and resumes buffing the honey bowl.
As we drift away from him, we can hear him sing into the soft still morning air, “Love each other, love each other.” And then, in a voice that sounds like a whisper we hear him say, “I tell them this over and over. O my my – will they listen? It would be nice. Yes, yes – very nice if they did.”
The thought of the two human people listening and loving each other makes him smile.