THE SEAHORSES ARE AT IT AGAIN.
The humans display shock and excitement, as though this were a surprise. I assure you, it is not. The seahorses spawn at the same time every year. I have witnessed four of their breeding cycles during my captivity here.
There will be hundreds of seahorse larvae. Thousands, perhaps. They begin as a cloud of eggs and, over several days, transform into a clump of wiggling limbs, bearing no resemblance to their parents. In fact, they look like small versions of the sea worms that prowl the sands of the main tank.
It is fascinating how a freshly born creature can be so unlike its creator.
Obviously, this is not the case with humans. I have observed humans at every life stage, and they are, at all times, undeniably human. Even though the human baby is helpless and must be carried by its parent, no one could mistake it for anything else. Humans grow from small to large and then sometimes recede again as they approach the end of their life span, but they always have four limbs, twenty digits, two eyes on the front of their heads.
Their dependence upon their parents is unusually prolonged. Certainly it makes sense that the smallest children require assistance with the most basic of tasks: eating, drinking, urinating, defecating. Their short stature and clumsy limbs make these activities difficult. But as they gain physical independence, oddly, their struggle continues. They summon mother or father at the slightest need: an untied shoelace, a sealed juice box, a minor conflict with another child.
Young humans would fail abysmally in the sea.
I do not know how a giant Pacific octopus spawns. How might my larvae look? Are we shape-shifters like seahorses, or humdrum, like humans? I suppose I shall never know.
Tomorrow, there will be crowds. Terry may even allow the main doors to stay open late to accommodate additional humans who wish to see the seahorses spawn. These rule benders will scurry past my tank, most of them uninterested in anything else.
Every so often, one will pause here. With these, I always play a game. I unfurl my arms and let them waft in the artificial current of the pump. One by one I sucker my tentacles to the glass, and the human draws nearer. Then I pull my mantle to the front of the tank and stare into its eyes. The human calls its companions to come look. As soon as I hear their footsteps around the bend, I jet back behind my rock, leaving nothing but a whoosh of water.
How predictable you humans are!
With one exception. The elderly female who mops the floors does not play my games. Instead, she speaks to me. We . . . converse.
