Animals Are People

A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville

Chapter 1

I’m 50 yards from the cottage when I spy the wolfdog. In the green glow of Dad’s night vision goggles, she’s even more ghostly than I recall. That’s what I’ll call her, I think, Ghost. It’s just after midnight, the witching hour, as dark as it gets, and she knows I’m here. She’ll have heard me ditch my bike by the gravel road and creep through the woods; and I’m sure she smells the jerky in my backpack, the sweat in my armpits, the adrenaline in my blood.

I fear I’m making a mistake. What’s a 17 year old girl going to do with a stolen wolfdog? Am I wrong to break the law? What if I get caught, or shot? In my mind, I hear Mom warn “Jo, take a breath, you haven’t thought this through.” It’s true. I’m impulsive. I’m here based on a vision. The first time I saw Ghost, I knew she wasn’t safe, but it was the dream that forced me to act.

We moved from Michigan to Virginia a few months back. That’s why I got lost. I’m used to the suburbs of Ann Arbor where roads are paved and phones just work. Here, in the impoverished southern tip of Albemarle County, cell coverage is as patchy as the gravel roads. I knew I’d made a wrong turn, but I didn’t know I was on a driveway until I spied an old man sitting on his porch.

I nearly pulled a U-turn. Grubby windows, peeling paint, crumpled beer cans in red dirt, the geezer with cold eyes; right away I had a bad feeling, but I needed directions. When I cut the engine, a massive white dog appeared from behind the old man’s rocker and charged. The chain stopped her short with a yelp. She began to bark, but the old man was already lunging with his rifle. She cowered, hit the ground, flashed the whites of her eyes. I’d barely had time to flinch.

“Waddaya want?” growled the old man, and I realized he was talking to me.

“I’m lost. Can you point me back towards Scottsville?”

“Y’all ain’t from around here. You a Yankee?”

“I’m from Michigan. But I need to get to Scottsville. What kind of dog is that?”

“Wolfdog, pain in my ass, she ain’t good for nuthin’ but barkin’ at strangers. Turn left at the mailbox, lessen you want to come on down here and pet the dog. You sure are a pretty l’il thing.”

No way in hell am I leaving the pickup, I thought. This creeper gives me the chills.

“So I head back the way I came, turn left at the mailbox, and I’ll get to town?”

“What I said! Yankees ain’t too bright.”

“Okay, thanks,” I replied, already turning the ignition.

I put the old man in my rearview mirror, but I couldn’t forget his dog. She was beautiful, like an oversized German Shepherd with a lush, white coat. But it was her wild eyes that haunted me, a color I couldn’t name, a wolfish fusion of yellow and orange, and then flashing white with fear.

As soon as I got home, I researched wolfdogs. No wonder I’d never heard of them. Part wolf and part dog, these hybrids are banned in most states including Michigan. They can be dangerous, unpredictable, and untrainable. Wolfdogs are also intelligent, affectionate, and loyal.

I learned it would be a mistake to call Animal Control. They’d euthanize her. Or they’d do nothing, since I didn’t actually see the old man hit her, and nobody listens to teenage girls. I’d have left her alone, if it wasn’t for the dream. Lord knows I had enough farm work to do.

We moved to Virginia after my dad lost his job in the pandemic. I’m not sure exactly what he did, something to do with computers at the University of Michigan Hospital. It paid well, but he hated “the goddamn meetings and bureaucracy” and his “idiot boss.” Still, it was a shock when he announced over a meatloaf and mashed potato family dinner that he wanted to be a farmer.

I give Dad credit for the way he did it. We play a game where you tell two truths and a lie, and we have to guess which is which. So that night he said, “today I saw a girl walking a bunny on a leash, and today I decided to become a farmer, and today I had the hiccups.” Mom and I both guessed the middle one was the lie. Dad shook his head. And that’s when the war began.

To be fair, Dad grew up on a dairy farm, at least until he was fifteen, when Grandpa died of a surprise heart attack. But still, geek to rancher is a bizarre move. At first, Mom was more amused than angry, but then he mentioned Virginia. That freaked us both out. I’d lived my whole life in the liberal stronghold of Ann Arbor. Nobody was dragging this chick to Dixie.

The next few days were ugly. Dad lost every battle. Pleading “I hate office work” and “I’m made for the great outdoors” got him nowhere. If I’d been happy, he would have lost. But I wasn’t. I was miserable too. I hated high school. My grades were good, but I was late or absent so often, the State of Michigan kept sending my parents nasty letters. It’s not that I’m against learning. I read more than anyone. It’s just, classes are boring, and the place is crawling with mean girls.

“Listen, Abi, a move will be good for Jo. She can’t go on like this. She’s sleepwalking through school. She’s lonely and depressed. She hides in her room, eats crap, gets no exercise. Farm life will be good for Jo. She loves animals. We can try homeschooling. We’ve got to try something!”

And with that argument, against all odds, Dad won the war. When Mom replied, “Okay Will, maybe you’re right, let’s give it a try,” I lost my shit. I never imagined Mom would surrender. I screamed, threatened, sobbed, slammed doors. But it was too late. I was outgunned. Six weeks later, we piled our belongings into a U-Haul and drove to a 48 acre farm in rural Virginia.

I didn’t miss my friends, not really. But I did feel lonely. Dad was busy becoming a farmer, and Mom didn’t miss a beat. She’s an information architect. She organizes websites so people can find what they need. She worked remotely with her clients even before the pandemic. And her friends from library school live all over the place. If she’s got her phone and laptop, she’s good.

Our dog Knowsy died before lockdown. At 14, she was old for a Sheltie, but folks still mistook her for a Collie puppy. Her last weeks were rough. She had seizures, then stood with her head against the wall, until I wrapped her in my arms and carried her to the couch. She had good moments. We walked at the park, slowly, no need for a leash. I fed her bacon by hand. But I knew we had to put her to sleep. The Lap of Love vet was gentle. She had a peaceful death.

Still, I was unprepared. Knowsy was my only true friend. I learned that the hard way. The first week of freshman year, Elise Marie, queen of the mean girls, called me autistic. Her exact words, spoken at lunch to her friends and mine, were “She’s so odd. Must be a touch of the ‘tism.” And they all laughed, as my face turned bright red. Not a single one of those quisling whores had my back!

Anyways, we’d been here for two rainy weeks, and I’d never felt so lost. Before vanishing into her big day of meetings, Mom told me to unpack more boxes. But I couldn’t see the point. So I was staring out my bedroom window, longing to be home with Knowsy, when Dad pulled into the driveway with a truckload of goats. I was outside faster than green grass through a goose.

“You can’t have a farm without goats,” said Dad. “These three are baby Nigerian Dwarfs, and this here is a two-year old LaMancha. The creamery didn’t want her, since she can’t have kids. They are your responsibility. I have my hands full with the cows. And that’s not all. Now I’m done with fencing, we’ll get chickens, barn cats, maybe a few pigs. You’ll be too busy to be sad.”

And Dad was right. June was a blur of feathers and fur, and in July I got a job working with horses at Fox Holler Farm, just a mile down the road. I was happy to muck stalls for a few bucks an hour, just to be close to the horses. It was the perfect summer. And then I had the dream.

I was the wolfdog. It took a minute to figure that out. I was sitting on the porch where the old man had been. The rusty chain hung heavy on my neck. The world looked odd. I could see the crumpled blue beer cans in the dirt, and the yellow petals of wildflowers in the tall grass by the drive, but the forest was a blur. I could barely pick out individual trees. And the leaves were shades of brown and yellow, not green. While vision was fuzzy, my map of the world was rich. I could smell the cat asleep on the barn roof, tuna rotting in the garbage, a young, female fox in the woods across the road, cows and sheep grazing in the pasture a mile away.

I heard his truck. That’s why I sat up. Not close yet, further than the cows, but he was coming. That’s why I was afraid. I saw the gun, the chain, his cruel fists and boots. It was more than mental imagery. I remembered every time he kicked me. I felt the pain in my ribs and the ache in my heart. Why does he hit me? How do I escape? Where can I go? I had no answers. I could sit on the porch or lie in the dirt. It didn’t matter. I’d know my fate soon enough from his stink and swagger. And that’s when I awoke, heart pounding, green cotton sheets soaked in sweat.

Was it a dream or a vision? I wasn’t sure. It was more vivid than any dream. But how could I experience what it’s like to be a dog? It’s impossible. But it felt so real. And there were facts I could check. I grabbed my phone, searched “dogs see colors,” and sure enough they see blue and yellow. I’d always thought they were colorblind. Am I going crazy? I wondered. Is this how madness begins? Either way, I knew one thing for certain. I needed to rescue her now.

I didn’t mention a thing to my parents. In between morning chores and my afternoon shift at work, I collected the stuff I’d need: the night vision goggles my dad uses to hunt coyotes, bug spray, flashlight, black ski mask, beef jerky. I memorized the route. It was just over two miles.

So here I am, in the dark, dripping with sweat, and I see the stupidity of my plan. Even if I get her home, there’s no way Mom will let me keep a stolen wolfdog. This isn’t the first time I’ve done something crazy. When I was two, Mom denied me ice cream, so I cut her favorite artsy photos into tiny pieces. Like I said, I’m impulsive.

But this is the worst. I can’t take her. I can’t leave her. What if I set her free? Can a wolfdog survive in the wild? Ghost starts to bark. I am such an idiot. Why did I think she’d stay quiet? I bet this nasty old fogey is the shoot first type. Fuck! If I run in the dark, I’ll break a friggin’ ankle, so I creep back to my bike, and I ride home the way I came. Alone. What a loser. I mean, what kind of lunatic risks their life over a dream?

I made it home, safe if not entirely sound, and fell right away into a deep and dreamless sleep. When I awoke, I told myself to let it be. I can’t save every living thing. As a kid, I did try. Ants, spiders, grasshoppers, turtles, a lost dog, a baby bird, the bat trapped in our attic. My dad said I’m silly. “Animals eat animals. We all live, suffer, die. It’s nature, Jo. Let it be.” Dad was right.

I’m nearly done with chores when an osprey splashes into our pond, talons first, and emerges with a sunfish. Rainbow scales sparkle in the morning sun. The fish is so big the bird struggles to fly to the rocks on the far side. I take a moment to breathe. Yesterday’s heat and humidity are gone. I hear our rooster Kali. He’s an Ayam Cemani, all black, even his eyes, beak, and comb.

Today the farm is so lovely it hurts. Trees and grasses sway in the breeze, infinite shades of green. Finches, blue and yellow, scatter and chatter in the meadow. Ripples on the pond fade into self-reflection. I’m grateful to be here. I want to stop time, to stay in a feeling words can’t describe.

But I can’t. I’m late for my first class. As part of homeschooling, I’m learning philosophy from a professor Mom met at a conference. They stayed up late talking about ontology over chocolate martinis. Whatever. Anyways, Inari is writing a book about animals. So that’s what my class is about. Mom thinks it’ll be so interesting I’ll “engage in my own education.” I’m not so sure, but it can’t be worse than calculus with Dad. I’ll take words over numbers any day. So I grab a huge mug of black coffee, hustle up the stairs, hop into bed, open my laptop, and junior year begins.

“Hello, Jo! It’s good to finally meet you. I’m Inari. I’m not big on small talk, and we are behind schedule, so I’ll tell you about myself, then we’ll dive right in.”

Fair-skinned with blue eyes, chestnut hair in a French bob, sporting a cute black butterfly print V-neck, and a gold dangle earring, Inari is not what I expected.

“I already know a good deal about you from your mum. As you can tell by my accent, I’m from England. I earned a Master’s in Philosophy at the University of Bristol. But now I live in Boring, Oregon, which is not as interesting as it sounds. Nowadays I mostly teach philosophy to college students, and I am writing a book called Animals Are People. We’ll be using the first draft as the basis for this class. I’ll send you the syllabus later. Before we begin, do you have any questions?”

I don’t. I’m settling into a stupor. That’s how I survive school, by zoning out. Teachers only repeat what’s in the textbook anyway. I’m lost in thought, admiring Inari’s gold fox earring to be honest, when they surprise me by asking a question. “What’s your definition of philosophy?”

It’s good Mom warned me. I did my pre-work, and I have the tabs to prove it. I open the first and read from Wikipedia. “Philosophy is the systematized study of general and fundamental questions, such as those about existence, reason, knowledge, values, mind, and language.”

“Well, Jo, that’s a good definition. But it’s not yours, is it?”

I’m glad I drank all that coffee. Inari is not letting me coast. “I guess I don’t have a definition of philosophy. I think it’s about what you believe, and why; and morality, what’s right and wrong? Like how we treat animals. It’s wrong to hit a dog. But people do it all the time.”

“That’s better. And what are the branches of philosophy?”

I open another tab. This time I’m smart enough to paraphrase. “That’s a tough one. Nobody seems to agree on the names or even the number of branches. The most common ones I found are logic, metaphysics, epistemology, ethics, and aesthetics.”

“You’re right, Jo. Nobody agrees. It’s a good example of the subjective nature of classification. Take color, for instance. Colors aren’t real. They literally don’t exist out there in the world. Our brains create the experience of color in response to information from our eyes about light waves. And the names of colors and the borders between them are fabricated. Light is a spectrum. There’s no boundary between blue and green. We invented these categories. They are cultural artifacts, not universal truths. In Japan, blue-green used to be one color, Ao.”

I can tell by the look on their face, and the awkward silence, Inari as asked me a question. Yet the last thing I heard was Ao. “Sorry, I was remembering a dream where I was a dog. The only colors I saw were blue, yellow, and brown. But my sense of smell was wild. I had an elaborate map in my head, made of scents and sounds. It was weird to experience the world that way.”

“Wow! That’s cool. Jo, there’s a philosophy paper called What Is It Like to Be a Bat? The author Thomas Nagel argues we can’t know what it’s like to be somebody else, since we can’t inhabit their consciousness. Maybe he was wrong.” Inari chuckles. “Speaking of animals, that’s what this class is about. We’ll focus on metaphysics, ethics, and epistemology. What does it mean to be a sentient being? What is the moral status of animals? And how are we to know and trust what we believe? That should keep us busy for a while. Jo, what do you think?”

“All dem fitty cent words gots me grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a tater!”

“You lost me, Jo. What does that mean?”

“Sorry. I’m just messing around with language. I figure, if I must live in rural Virginia, I might as well speak Southside. What I mean is, philosophy’s full of big words, and that’s fun for me. I like looking them up. And, to answer your question, it sounds okay. I enjoy thinking about animals. But a lot of it’s obvious. Like your book title, Animals Are People. When I was six, Dad wouldn’t let our dog on our couch or on our beds. But I ignored his rule. Then one day we had a fight. He said, ‘Dogs don’t belong on beds.’ I was on the floor crying, my back against the wall, and I yelled as loud as I could, ‘Knowsy is a person too!’ And that was it. I won. Like I said, it’s obvious.”

“I love that story, Jo. Good for you! And thanks for being honest. At its best, philosophy means being truthful even if it’s painful or dangerous. Socrates enraged the people of Athens by asking hard questions. He was so honest, he was executed. We’ll follow in his footsteps. I don’t mean we’ll drink poison hemlock, at least I hope not. I mean that we’ll use the Socratic method. I’ll do my best not to lecture, but to ask questions, since nobody learns much by passive listening. To be meaningful and memorable, education requires conversation. Does that make sense?”

“You sound like Mom. She always wants me to be more engaged. But yeah, it makes sense.”

“Good. And I hope you’ll soon see that ‘obvious’ is a very tricky word. In fact, our goal is to deconstruct the obvious to better know ourselves and others. In a normal class, we’d worship the Western canon by studying the works of rich, cis, straight, white men. But we’ll defy that canon and argue with famous and obscure thinkers alike, because philosophy is a tool for all of us.”

My left ankle is itching like crazy. While Inari was talking, I pulled off my sock and found a cluster of tiny bumps on the inside of my ankle. I’ve never seen anything like it. The more I scratch, the worse they itch. I’ve made one bleed. Something must have bitten me last night.

“Mary Midgley says philosophy is like plumbing, invisible but not optional. Our actions and beliefs are shaped by the interactions of subconscious mental models and feelings. The classics focus on reason and rationality, but that’s only half the story. Philosophy means love of wisdom. Our most powerful emotion, LOVE, is in the name. Sentio, Ergo Sum. I feel, therefore I am.”

I nod to show I’m listening. And I am. Inari is more interesting than I expected.

“Nietzsche said God is dead. Most people believe that’s true of philosophy too. But we shall need new plumbing for the change that’s coming. Science won’t save us. Neither will culture. We must learn to think for ourselves. Perhaps that’s a good place to end. Jo, I’m sorry for lecturing. Bad habits are hard to break. Next week we’ll argue with Plato and Aristotle. Do your reading. I’ll ask hard questions. Say hello to your mum. Any questions?”

I have no idea what change is coming, but my ankle is getting worse, so I tell Inari I don’t have questions, and we sign off. I’ll head to Fox Holler early. I can show Gage my bites. He’s a local. He’ll know what bug it was. I’ll ask about wolfdogs too. Gage is an expert on all things animal.

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A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville