“I wish I wasn’t human,” my friend said the other day, stirring her coffee while staring at a doves’ mating ritual. Now, that’s not the kind of statement you just nod at and move on from. “What would you be?” She didn’t answer immediately, which tells you she hadn’t thought this through.
Because wishing not to be human is one thing. But choosing a replacement species, that’s a commitment. Sleep 18 hours a day, judge everyone silently, knock things off tables for no reason.
But you have to eat the same pellets every day and pretend a piece of string is entertainment. Unconditional love, daily walks and the emotional range of “happy”, “very happy”, and “someone opened the fridge”. But then you remember vet visits, baths.
And that one humiliating moment when you get introduced as “our baby”. Yes, until you realise you’d spend most of your life avoiding power lines and being chased away from outdoor restaurants. Also, the public perception of birds is not great.
One wrong move and suddenly you’re “that pigeon”. Except your entire existence depends on someone remembering to feed you and not tapping on the glass like you’re a reality show contestant. And after dying, you get flushed down the toilet.
At this point I looked back at my friend. “Are you sure about this?” I asked. “Humans are exhausting.” She’s not wrong.
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