A front-page story in Tuesday’s Wall Street Journal caught my attention.
“Frustrated by the cost of living in New York City, Ettel Edshteyn, a dog behavior consultant who works remotely, looked into moving to Puerto Rico or Central America. The deal breaker was the hundreds of plants she keeps in her apartment in Queens.”
Shit. And I thought I had problems.
Here you have a person striving to improve her situation, but who’s trapped under the crushing weight of responsibility. To her plants.
Hey, we’ve all been there.
My wife got this succulent from some random neighbor four moves ago, and that goddamn thing has since driven cross-country with me twice.
“No! We’re keeping it,” she says as I’m walking with the pot out to the garage to dump it in the trash during our last move. “It was so thoughtful of . . . what was her name again?”
Gifted plants are a form of social contract.
As well as those procured on one’s own.
Why?
Because they have feelings, that’s why.
“ . . . plants are intelligences. They have spirits, souls, and knowledge, just as we do,” according to a recent review of Plant Spirit Shamanism.
Can’t argue with a Plant Spirit Shaman.
And I do appreciate the dilemma this poses for Ettel Edshteyn.
If she honors her obligation to her plants and remains in Queens, will her work as a dog behavior consultant suffer as a result?
Likely, it already has.
As with school children, canine behavior deteriorated sharply during the pandemic, leading to widespread dog behavior consultant burnout.
It’s gone largely unreported, but it’s real.
And what about those unfortunate Puerto Rican and Central American dogs that will have to forego the benefit of Edshteyn’s consulting? Doubtful they’ll jump on Zoom any time soon to avail themselves of her services remotely.
And that’s a problem.
Have you been to Puerto Rico? Or anywhere in Central America?
I have. And I can tell you, dogs there would happily spend their days lapping malt liquor from a toilet, given the opportunity. They don’t just need behavior consulting. They need a full-on intervention.
Yeah, it’s a dilemma.
So what’s Pete’s view of Edshteyn’s situation in New York from where he sits in Western Michigan?
“She should come here,” he says. “There’s a place out on Lincoln Lake Road that’s listed for pretty cheap, I think.”
Okay. That’s a good start.
And what about her work?
“Not sure about the dogs, but there are plenty of deer and racoons for her to talk to.”
Sure. That could be rewarding.
And what about her plants?
“I dunno,” Pete says. “Maybe she could put them in a U-Haul and drive them. Or just dump them somewhere in Queens . . . you know, like they do with bodies in mob movies.”
Whoa, whoa . . . hang on there, Pete.
These plants are intelligences, remember? You can’t just stuff them in a moving van or abandon them in a vacant lot.
There has to be a better solution.
What else have you got?
“. . . . . . . . . .”
Hello?
Pete?
You still there?
“Um, yeah,” he finally says. “I think we’re finished here.”