Crocodile: (n) a reptile of the genus Crocodylus, found in sluggish waters and swamps of the tropics

They know.

We know.

Everybody knows.

I was invited to a party one night in Jacksonville, Florida.

It was a rich family that had a beautiful bungalow out next to the ocean. I don’t know how I rated this invitation.

Let’s just assume I was in my lucky mode.

When I arrived, I got out of my car and was chatting to a friend when the owner of the bungalow came out and said, “You might want to come inside.”

Being young and full of a fair mixture of piss and vinegar, I questioned, “Why is that?”

He quickly explained that there were crocodiles in the area. He didn’t even get the words out of his mouth before we looked up, and there, probably twenty yards away, was one of the six-foot monstrosities, inching along the grass toward the marsh.

Now let me tell you what I felt.

My immediate human instinct was, “We are never to meet.”

Crocodiles and human beings were never meant to cohabitate.

Suddenly, the croc turned and looked in my direction—at least it appeared he did—and I could tell that he felt exactly the same way. He looked at me, as a human, the same way I looked at him as a crocodile. “What the hell??”

So even though I stepped lively toward the bungalow to join the party, he just as quickly headed off to the marsh to link with whatever friends he might have had.

You see, nature is not screwed up.

The crocodile is certainly stronger than me, and probably, in a one-on-one fight, would win. But there is something in his evolution that tells him to get the hell away from me.

Crocodiles don’t like people any more than people want to be eaten by crocodiles.

It’s just like we know that it’s not right for us to pollute the skies.

The skies should have very few things in them: clouds, sun, stars, other planets… Maybe heaven.

But not black billowing smoke from tailpipes on automobiles and smokestacks on factories.

We know this.

We know that when we have trash in our car, we’re not supposed to throw it out onto the grass. It would be wonderful if the grass could speak and say, ‘What in the hell are you doing?”

But all the grass can do is be embarrassed that we’ve cluttered up its space.

We know stuff. We do.

Just as the crocodile has an instinct to stay away from human beings, there is an instinct in us—to treat nature properly, with great respect.

I’m not going to go out and kill crocodiles because I’m afraid they’re going to eat me. Basically, when a crocodile sees me, he thinks to himself, “What the shit? When did THEY move into the neighborhood?”

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