My parents used to take me to the pet department and tell me it

Billy Connolly, the great jester and philosopher of laughter, once revealed a tale both humorous and profound: “My parents used to take me to the pet department and tell me it was a zoo.” At first glance, his words paint a scene of playful deception, of parents stretching the imagination of their child with a trick of circumstance. Yet beneath the humor lies an ancient wisdom: that what we believe a thing to be often shapes our experience of it more deeply than the thing itself.

For the child, a pet department could indeed become a zoo if told so by trusted voices. The rabbits and parrots, the fish and hamsters, became exotic wonders, creatures from distant realms. This shows us how perception can transform the ordinary into the extraordinary, how the lens of belief magnifies even the smallest of things into marvels. Thus Connolly’s tale is not only one of comedy, but of imagination—the ability to see more than what the eye first beholds.

The ancients often spoke of this truth. Plato, in his allegory of the Cave, explained how the shadows upon the wall became reality to those who had never seen the sun. In the same way, a child in the aisles of a shop may see a “zoo,” and to him, it is no less real than the grandest menagerie. Reality, then, is not always about what is, but about how we frame it, how our hearts and minds choose to see.

History too offers us examples of this power of perspective. During times of hardship, many families who had little still created joy for their children. A simple backyard could become a kingdom; a wooden stick could become a sword of legend. Soldiers in trenches during the Great War told stories, sang songs, and transformed mud-soaked misery into moments of courage and laughter. In all of these, as in Connolly’s tale, the human spirit shows its strength: to turn scarcity into abundance by the force of imagination.

But there is another truth hidden here: the role of parents and elders in shaping the vision of the young. By telling their son the pet shop was a zoo, Connolly’s parents were not merely deceiving him—they were teaching him to see wonder in small things, to find joy without wealth, to imagine without limit. This, too, is wisdom for the ages: for children do not need grand palaces to dream, only the gift of vision. What we pass on to them in words shapes the very way they walk through the world.

The lesson for us is clear: do not despise small beginnings, nor overlook the marvels in ordinary places. If a pet department can be a zoo, then perhaps every day holds wonders waiting to be reframed. The grocery store may be a treasure market, the neighborhood street a parade ground, the park a sacred grove. By shifting perception, we enrich our lives with meaning, no matter how humble the circumstances.

Therefore, O traveler of life, take Connolly’s words as more than jest. Remember that reality is not fixed—it bends beneath the gaze of imagination. Learn to see with the eyes of a child, to honor the power of story, and to teach others, especially the young, to find wonder where the world offers little. For in the end, it is not only the grand zoos of the earth that matter, but the ability to look upon a cage of parakeets and see a jungle, to hear a goldfish bubbling and hear the ocean. This is the secret of joy, the alchemy of perception, the gift of laughter that endures through all ages.