“The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” –  William Shakespeare

This is another in the series of photographs of Simon taken by animal control officer (and friend) Jessica Barrett a week ago, when Simon was taken off a struggling farm in Washington County, New York. Since then, I have written a lot about the experience of rescue, of getting Simon, and of his healing and trying to care for him. This photograph shows the horrible and painful condition of his feet, but does not show the lice, bedsores, bloody sores and cuts, rain rot, pain, soreness,  teeth grown into his jaw or other infections and problems.

I’ve found it powerful to be with Simon, to care for him, to write about him. I am struck by the number of people who see Simon as having powerful emotions – they tell me he is angry,  grateful, trusting, loving. He was fated to be with me, and me with him. They bless me, and say I am a hero. Maria, too. That I am healing him and he is healing me. Very loving and interesting ideas. I am thinking about them.

Animal rescue is a remarkable cultural phenomena in America and it goes hand in hand with differing ideas about human beings,  about salvation, anger, righteousness,  emotion and obligation.

I see many of those ideas could be brought to bear on the Simon story. The script calls for us to shake our heads, and create yet another story about the cruelty, moral vacuity and fickleness of humans. We are supposed to be angry, scornful, outraged. IScores of people came to see Simon over the weekend and ask me – quite understandably – how could anyone do this? I’ve surely asked that question myself. I don’t have the answer. I will never have it. But I’d like a different script for Simon’s story. I don’t want to use the rescue of animals as a club on people. That doesn’t work for me.

Mostly, I think of the powerful and inspiring drive of animals to live. To just simply live and exist. They do not waste their energy on anger, recriminations, the machinations of fate, trust and commitment. On judgement and blame. The most amazing thing about Simon was his relentless drive to life, to eat, walk, heal, and to see the spark of life – which was always there – flare up in his eyes.

Simon got to me, on many levels. But when I cried for Simon, it was not really for him. I cried for the farmer, who breaks my heart, and thought about what much have happened to him. Simon will be fine. I don’t think I can say that for the farmer. Simon will never know – not in human terms – that he was mistreated and brought to the edge of life. The farmer does know that.

So I have been thinking about Simon and the quality of mercy. How in America, we are sometimes so much more merciful towards animals than we are towards people, and how for me, spirituality ties humans and animals together, rather than separates them. It sometimes seems that our love for animals drives us away from people, a sad thing for them and for us. I don’t want to use the love of animals to club people, or to feel angry towards them. I’d like to do just the opposite.

I know something about the farmer now, and I know that he will not be rescued. Noone will come and help him with health care, his dying farm, his collapsing life or bring him to a new one. Or a new home.

Rescuing people seems too expensive these days. Out of fashion. Perhaps our hard view of one another comes from the news, or or hateful political system, or the rise of money as the central drive in our lives. We tend to blame people for their problems, as we blame people for the problems of animals. Noone will rescue the farmer’s child either, who told one of Simon’s rescuers that he was surprised they were there. After all, he said,  Simon was still alive.

I love Simon, and and am grateful to be taking him here. Yet I keep returning to the idea that we have fallen out of balance. We are edging closer towards worshiping animals, and giving up on mercy towards people or of thinking well of them. Animals can’t speak, or even leave. So we are free to paint them in any color we like.   Animals, voiceless and dependent, give us a way of feeling good, of drinking in the sweet cup of mercy.

The wondrous thing about “rescuing” an animal like Simon is that he is not part of the drama, the agonizing, the emotions. He wants to be fed and sheltered, and be with his kind. He appreciates human connection and attention, although he is just as happy to sit out in the pole barn for hours. He accepts food and care here, he would accept it elsewhere. This is the wonderful thing that separates us from animals, and reminds me of what is so beautiful and heart-wrenching about people. We are so flawed and complex. We can be cruel. We can be brave and loving. We have consciences. We can do better. Why don’t we?

For me, this human imperfect – our ability to torture and neglect an animal and rescue and save it – is what is sacred about people. Perhaps the lesson of Simon is that we are the neediest creatures of all. The quality of mercy is twice blessed. Him that gives and him that takes.