Lyle and I are happy in our new hotel-like lifestyle. There’s no concierges or butlers. But, eager to begin his new life, my little lion woke me up early- as soon as the sun was up. The sun is up and so am I!

Outside my formidable, fortress-like building, the world looks like a PBS show. Cars, trucks, and buses filing past. Neighbors of all colors rambling about.

Lyle, who’s like a child on his first day of school, gets a sweet send off: Words of affection and final instructions. Remember where you live! Don’t go in the road! I love you!

I was not a PBS child. There’s something ‘alien’ about a machine in my living room teaching me about life, my very small mind observed.

Boxes don’t make very good parents, no matter what kind of creatures you populate them with. White, black, green, blue, human or not quite. And overtly non-human entities. I did not like those.

Who are all these strangers? I wondered nervously. And why do they have 24/7 access to my house? Thus, the artificial reality of my young life began.

My mother worked. The television was like a portal to somewhere else besides being alone. Happy Days was better than the non-existent happiness at my house. But, a box can’t hug you, and tell you that your life matters. Or dry your tears. Or answer questions. I guess I disliked the TV for the same reason I disliked the priest. Both deprived me of agency.

TV/media phenomenon is like an alien predator took away mothers and inserted machines in their place. It’s an indoctrinating, literally, “alienating” surrogate creature to a human mother. Why bothering socializing when you can pretend ‘you are part’ on television?

Lyle will be OK out there, I console myself. He knows I love him; he’s clever to return when he gets hungry. This neighborhood is generally friendly and relaxed.

Plus, Lyle never watched TV. No brain scrambling messages, no blurry boundaries between what is real and what is fake. His young lion self is fully intact. Rooaaarrr!