Noah’s Ark.

Well me and N-dog, as I liked to call him, were chilling on deck, the rain more a sprinkle than its usual waterfall, doing things which the G-man may not have been too proud of. The waves had been a bit turbulent that day, crashing their heavy hands on the side of the ark with a none too gentle caress. We were discussing that morning’s events, sipping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, when out of the blue N-dog asks “Do you think this is it?”

       You see, I’d known N-dog a long, long time. He was around six hundred years old, after all. But our conversations had never revolved around questions of the existential variety. Which might come as a surprise to most, but really Noah had always been pretty light-hearted and jovial about our particular predicament. The whole forty days and forty nights of rain were always portrayed a little more dramatically than what actually went down. Of course, it had its downsides, sure, but on the whole I thought we were getting used to a life at sea.

       We walked down towards the main hold of the ark. The snuffles and grunts of the animals could be heard, along with the pungent aroma which drifted up and filled the nostrils like a farmyard bouquet. N-dog patted the rump of a fine looking moose. The creature made a noise which is rather indescribable, unless you have actually witnessed the cry of a moose for yourself.  Noah finally turned to look at me, his grey wizened eyes settling on my face. 

    “This world… this beautiful land that we live in. It’s being destroyed. It will always be destroyed. If man continues to walk this earth, it will remain in a constant state of war, one which it cannot win.”


      His words, although poignant and most likely important were however drowned out by the cacophony of animal noises. I didn’t get a chance to reply, as the ark was abruptly tipped sideward. Our bodies lurched starboard. The sound of hundreds of animals being slammed against gopher wood resonated throughout the ark. However, we had become used to such turbulence from our many days at sea, so things quickly calmed down. Noah turned to me once again. 


  “Think of all the species we have lost! The nardvilles, the frantelope, the eedlark - so many have gone to waste! And for what? I sometimes question that man’s motives. It just seems like he’s doing it because, well, he can. Our once rich, verdant environment is lost to this abominable flood! How I yearn to place my feet on solid ground, to feel the grass tickle my toes, the soil beneath my feet!” Noah paused, catching his breath, tears threatening to escape and run down his weathered face. He continued, “This flood. It’s just here to wipe us out. He wants to start afresh, his beautiful flawless globe that he had formed, like his own child, was being damaged, by us, his very own creations. He had perfection, we destroyed it! He knows it would have died if we’d continued living, that we’d pollute it with fumes that it would be unable to choke out. I’ve heard things. Terrible things, new technology, steel contraptions, chemicals, he couldn’t let that happen, surely it would be the end of us all!”

 I told N-dog to lay off the wine before lunch.