Superpower Envy
Well past my physical prime, I’m enchanted by the superpowers of others. Mostly the non-human beings in my life. My canine roommate—and best friend—can obviously see, hear, and smell far beyond my own abilities, despite her proximity to my age in the circle of life. We are both of advanced years, but her interest gets piqued daily by something beyond my senses.
While I sit oblivious to anything outside our bedroom, Tootsie dashes to the front room and stares out the window, ears upright, nose twitching. I follow. I look. I don’t see anything. I ask her what it is, but she doesn’t tell me—whether as a show of one-upmanship or to keep me from worrying about trespassers, I can’t say.
We all know dogs sniff everything. The canine nasal cavity has more than 100 million sensory receptor sites. Humans have a mere 6 million. And dogs have 40 times our brain space devoted to analyzing smells. Now admittedly, depending on who you live with, this might not be a desirable superpower, but when I watch how much information my Tootsie takes in as she sniffs her way through a public park, I can’t help but be a little envious.
While dogs apparently don’t see the array of colors that humans do, they have better night vision than humans, and are better at detecting motion. This superpower would make me more comfortable driving at night.
Dogs have much more sensitive hearing than humans. They hear high frequencies that are out of our range, can more readily differentiate noises, and can hear sounds four times farther away than we can. This is because dogs have 18 muscles controlling their ears. People have merely six.
Human ears are stationary. But dogs can rotate their ears to funnel sounds into the inner ear, hence, can localize sounds, hear them more accurately, and from farther away—four times farther—than people in their prime. And I’d settle for the hearing acuity I had 20 years ago.
But dogs are nothing compared to cats, who are equipped with 30 ear muscles, hence are masters at differentiating sounds.
That’s not a cat’s only superpower. Tobias, my feline roommate, sleeps on top of me. Yet I can turn over without any regard for how it will affect him. He’s like an extra-large baggie full of orange Jello—he just oozes into the appropriate shape for the new spot. If somebody bounced me in my sleep, I’d probably break a bone and wonder why I can’t get out of bed in the morning.
If I knock him off the mattress, Tobias always lands on his feet. Never on his head—like me. Or his knees—like me. Or with his toes crunched up and broken beneath the weight of his body—like me.
Wouldn’t it be a gas to have the superpower of always landing on my feet? Of course, lacking built-in foot pads, I’d need to wear cushioned shoes at all times to absorb the shock of an unplanned landing. And I’m not sure about wearing big sneakers to bed.
And Tobias has those secret weapons he hides between his toes—those tiny swords that frighten even Tootsie who is 5-times his size. What a superpower if I’m accosted while drinking a draft at my local brewery: I spring my built-in switch blades. Done!
I guess my superpower is words. The ability to arrange and rearrange them. And even invent them. To record history or ponder the future. To use reason in seeking the best path for the time I have left.
And thumbs are nice, too.