A butterfly campaign

Three days after our pet dog Barty died, we were in Coonoor trying unsuccessfully to forget his beloved golden face and routine tricks to get attention or food or both, when I noticed a pale yellow butterfly on the floor outside the bathroom.

I ignored it. There was a French window close to where it lay fluttering. So I left it to decide when it wanted to go through it

The next morning it hadn’t moved from where I had found it. I got down on my knees and peered at it. Were its wings damp? No. I tried to get it to sit on my finger to lead it to the breezy sunny outside through the French window but it refused to let go and seemed to cling.

One for another

This was very odd as insects usually shun humans and cannot get away fast enough from us. Very gently I slid a leaf under it and pushed it outside hoping that the light would shake it awake.

Ah! Success! It fluttered its wings and lifted off floating away only to turn around. It tried to get back into the house. I closed the window just in time and returned to my room with relief, when I saw yet another butterfly fluttering near my desk.

A butterfly campaign! Just then, outside the window, was a very small bird looking directly at me. Again, a pale yellow. It was so still and looked so purposeful that a thrill of occult possibilities ran through me; I felt an exhilaration impossible to share. Was this some sort of message? Nature silently trying to convey something to an obtuse human. A moment later, the yellow butterfly I had coaxed to fly away alighted by the bird. Or that is how it seemed to me. Will an insect ever make the mistake of resting by a bird? This was indeed very odd.

Another encounter

Early next morning I carried my cup of coffee into the dim morning light of the garden. There they were on the lawn — two butterflies and the tiny bird. This time I felt almost pinned down.

“ Meeeaaow …” came a plaintive enquiry, and an ugly little cat came into view from behind the house, utterly feeble and starving. She looked hopefully at me and opened her mouth again in a silent mew as if asking: “Any food going?” She was that weak.

I abandoned my coffee and went indoors to fetch a cutlet and a cold egg-yolk — wreckage from the previous night’s dinner. By the time I’d warmed this meal for a certain distant relative of the tiger, and stepped out again, the yellow trio had disappeared, leaving a different species in my care.

Were these messengers sent from somewhere beyond to carry out a rescue mission below?

minioup@gmail.com