Animals Are People

A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville

Chapter 11

The jailbreak is pointless. Still, I watch as the prisoner jiggers the latch through the bars with the tip of his finger. Escape is impossible, usually, but sometimes our captors forget to put the pin in the latch. The fierce determination on his pink, hairless monkey face is poignant. Bubba, you’re in the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. I dislodge an apple chunk from my cheek pouch. Hey, you can’t watch a movie without popcorn, am I right?

His dedication pays off, and the door springs open. I wonder if he’ll open more cages. It’s not a good idea. I know from experience. All hell breaks loose. As he walks past, I see he’s a puller. Most likely, he eats it too. Hair is better than feces. But still, yuck! He runs a few laps, climbs up to the window and rattles the bars. And then the poor bastard walks back into his cage and sits down.

I’m rocking back and forth. What else can I do? There’s not enough room to pace. I knew that he’d fail. Yet I’m wrecked by a wave of anguish. I want to go home! I ache for the forest and for my babies. I hate the spiders. They aren’t real. But my fear is. They creep into my dreams. I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake. Suddenly a hairy tarantula jumps towards my face, and I scream.

“Jo, what is it? You’re alright. Just breathe.” Mom stands by my bed. She looks horrified.

“Everything is okay,” I say. “I had a nightmare. I’m all good now.” But I’m not. It wasn’t a dream. It was a vision. Real as dirt. Mom heads back to the kitchen. I recall the logo on the cage across from mine: the orange rotunda symbol, designed by Thomas Jefferson, patterned after the Pantheon. If I look, I bet I’ll find that evil laboratory on the grounds of the University of Virginia. But what can I do? I’ve read the firsthand account of the University of Arizona liberation. An ALF team rescued a thousand animals and set the animal research buildings on fire. But labs are more secure these days. There’s no way I can free those monkeys. I saw through her eyes, drew on her memory, felt her agony and despair, touched her madness. And there’s nothing I can do.

I throw on clothes, fill the blue jug with hot water, and head over to the goats. Yesterday’s idea sounds dumb now. I imagined slapping Animals Are People bumper stickers on cars all over the county. It might get people thinking and talking. But it’s too indirect. As I pour hot water into the pan, steam rises, and the goats gather. In this chilly weather, they love morning tea. At least I can bring happiness to the animals in my care. Perhaps I should focus on the good I can do.

An hour later, Inari is lecturing. “So, we can define humility as a modest view of one’s own importance, or as we learned in Seven Sacred Teachings, it’s a promise to live for the pack.”

“I had another dream,” I blurt. “A nightmare. And I can’t focus. I need to talk about it.” Inari nods. So I spill my guts. I tell them all about the tortured monkeys and the evil lab and my latest liberation fantasy.

“Jo, thank you for being honest. Now, let me return the favor. I don’t believe that you inhabit the minds of animals. You are experiencing vivid dreams. Those details which correspond with reality are drawn from your subconscious. Our conscious mind perceives a tiny fraction of sensory input. We know more than we realize. Perhaps you saw a solitary chicken without noticing her, and the same with the monkey. Later, the details surfaced in a dream. See what I’m saying?”

“I’m not an idiot, Inari. I wish you were right. But some details, I couldn’t have known. And I’m not crazy! I’ve done my research. There’s a place nearby, the Monroe Institute, where they teach people to communicate with animals via telepathy. And the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia studies children who have dreams held over from their previous lives.”

“Careful, Jo. Don’t be fooled by all the daft buggers and dodgy bastards. I’m a fan of Occam’s razor. So I prefer the simplest explanation. I view ‘mind’ as an emergent property of the brain. And I’m a skeptic of parapsychology, Jo. It’s mostly nutters with bats in the belfry. On the other hand, I respect the humility attributed to Socrates: ‘I know that I know nothing.’ For instance, I can imagine an alternative version of Plato’s Cave. The prisoners face a tunnel that leads out, and black cardboard covers the mouth. Candles secured to the cardboard provide the only light. Snuff out a candle. Its flame is gone. Now, instead of candles, imagine holes in the cardboard that let sunlight into the cave. If you cover a hole, the prisoners lose the light. But it’s not gone. Does consciousness arise in each person or radiate from a single source? I don’t know.”

“So, Inari, it’s possible my dreams are real?”

“Some indigenous peoples believe that dreaming is a separate reality, just as important as waking life, while others see dreams as a way to communicate with gods, animals, and ancestors via the spirit world. But again, Jo, I am a minimalist. I only tend to believe what’s obvious or proven by science. So let’s both proceed with humility. I won’t dismiss your dreams. But please don’t act on them. Or at least talk to me first. Okay?” I nod. “So, back to humility. You told me you hate your dad for eating meat and being a farmer. But your veganism is a recent change. And your lifestyle harms animals and the environment. Are you morally superior to your dad, really?”

I can’t stop the twinge of anger. But I let it be.

“Intellectually, I know you’re right. Emotionally, I do feel superior. Inari, I do my best to do no harm. And it really pisses me off when others don’t even try.”

“My favorite Bible quote is, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ Jesus takes aim at judgmental narcissism, because it’s a dangerous, innate human weakness. So we deploy culture to offset nature. We call pride the deadliest of sins in order to govern our natural instincts. To change people, we need compassion, not contempt. And our compassion only grows when we admit humility into our hypotheses. Jo, have you ever heard the old story of the Zen farmer and his son?”

“Nope.”

“The farmer’s horse runs away, the neighbors cry bad luck, and he says, ‘maybe.’ The horse returns with three wild horses, the neighbors call it good luck, and he says, ‘maybe.’ His son falls off a wild horse, breaks his leg, the neighbors cry bad luck, and he says, ‘maybe.’ Finally, his son escapes a military draft due to the broken leg, the neighbors call it good luck, and the old farmer once again says, ‘maybe.’”

“So we can’t predict the future.”

“But we feel we can! We label events ‘good’ or ‘bad’ without knowing second order effects. We act on plans built on predictions. Jo, it’s the best we can do. The alternative is analysis paralysis. My response to the Zen farmer is to face life’s ambiguity with humor and humility. We simply can’t know the consequences of our actions. Yet we must act. So we do our best, and we laugh along the way.”

“When I played volleyball, I worked hard to make our club’s top team. I wanted it so bad. And when I made the team, I hated it. The girls were cliquey, the coach was a bitch, and I rode the bench. I quit playing after that season. I can laugh now. But it wasn’t funny at the time.”

“I expect that hurt, Jo. But you learned a lot. Next time you really want something, remember volleyball. So, honesty and humility are the context for my book, Animals Are People. The title is descriptive, not prescriptive. Each animal is a sentient being worthy of moral status. ‘Knowsy is a person too.’ You said that of your dog when you were six. You said it’s obvious. That’s my point too. Animals think, feel, plan, play, love, dream, grieve, and die. They craft tools, share culture, and cultivate wisdom. Of course they is the wrong pronoun, since we are animals too. And we all deserve respect and compassion. But, Jo, I won’t tell folks not to wear or hunt or eat animals. All I ask is honesty. Don’t try to evade your personal responsibility by denying the personhood of all living creatures.”

“But, Inari, what if that’s not enough?”

“Next week, I’ll explain my theory of change. For now, Jo, let’s turn to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.”

“He’s one of the good ones. Rousseau reminds me of Montaigne. Both are honest about our relationships with animals and people. In Discourse on Inequality, he says we shouldn’t hurt our fellow creatures unless our lives are at stake, ‘less because they are rational than because they are sentient beings: and this quality, being common both to men and beasts, ought to entitle the latter at least to the privilege of not being wantonly ill-treated by the former.’”

“At the same time, David Hume says, ‘no truth appears to be more evident, than that beasts are endow’d with thought and reason as well as men.’ Does Rousseau agree?”

“Rousseau knows that animals think and feel, but he says they can’t generalize or learn or possess free will. So he’s wrong. But he’s not a supremacist. He writes ‘it is reason which turns man’s mind back upon itself, and divides him from everything that could disturb or afflict him. It is philosophy that isolates him, and bids him say, at sight of the misfortunes of others: perish if you will, I am secure.’ Rousseau knows that all beings merit equal moral status. If anything, he prefers animals.”

“That’s right, Jo. He sees inequality as the root cause of misery. He says that while ‘there is hardly any inequality in the state of nature,’ human society shows ‘the violence of the powerful and the oppression of the weak.’ It’s an echo of the aboriginal belief that the most destructive idea in existence is ‘I am greater than you; you are less than me.’ It’s a slippery slope. The belief in supremacy over animals primes people for supremacy over their fellow humans. It’s the root cause of patriarchy. But let’s get back to Rousseau. How does he feel about property?”

“He sure as hell doesn’t agree with John Locke. Rousseau writes ‘The first man who, having fenced in a piece of land, said, “this is mine,” and found people naïve enough to believe him, that man was the true founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not any one have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows: Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.’ Like I said, Inari, Rousseau is one of the good ones.”

“Well, Jo, that all depends on your perspective. In The Social Contract, Rousseau says, ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains,’ and he claims that only the general will of the people has the right to rule. And in Emile, he argues for vegetarianism and for the equality of all religions. So his books were banned and burned, and warrants were issued for his arrest. The rich and powerful viewed Rousseau as a danger to society. And they were right. His ideas ultimately led to the French Revolution.”

“My dad says that inequality is so bad now, we’ll soon relearn what comes after ‘let them eat cake.’”

“It’s only fitting that, while the quote is attributed to Marie Antoinette, it actually appeared fifty years earlier as ‘let them eat brioche,’ in The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Okay, Jo, that’s enough for today. Are we both agreed that you won’t act on your dream, at least for now?”

“I can wait for your theory of change. But I can’t do nothing forever!” Inari says that’s good enough for them.

So I grab a quick bite and ride my bike to Fox Holler. It’s cold and windy yet sunny. And the snow is gone. As I pour cat food into his bowl, Bodhi appears out of thin air. I grab a blanket from the barn and sit on the bench in the sun. When he’s had enough to eat, Bodhi curls into my lap. I pull the blanket over him. And he falls asleep. Now I’m stuck. But it’s the good kind of stuck. After a long, cold night, Bodhi needs all the love and warmth he can get.

Inari’s question about moral superiority got under my skin. When I was a kid, Dad often took me fishing at Pickerel Lake. We’d find a quiet spot, pitch lawn chairs, bait hooks, and cast lines. When my bobber bobbed, I’d get so excited. Most fish were small. So we’d toss ‘em back. But every once in a while, I’d catch a largemouth bass. For lunch, Dad would break out sandwiches, chips, and sodas.

I miss those days! Sadly, these memories are now tinged with guilt. As a kid, I didn’t know that fish and worms feel pain. Or maybe I didn’t want to know. But that’s what I don’t understand. I tell Dad that animals are sentient. I show him the science. And I appeal to his emotions. Yet, Dad still loves to hunt and fish. It’s as if there’s an invisible border where his compassion simply ends.

Rousseau says that while we may not live up to the “sublime maxim of rational justice, Do to others as you would have them do unto you,” compassion “inspires all men with that other maxim of natural goodness, much less perfect indeed, but perhaps more useful, Do good to yourself with as little evil as possible to others.”

But Dad arbitrarily excludes animals from his moral circle. How do I not hate him for that? Elie Wiesel tells us to take sides and never again be silent in the face of suffering. I wish that I was ignorant. I want to go back to being a kid.

Bodhi fidgets, then jumps off my lap. I fill a cup with cracked corn and wander around the barn in search of the hens. I spy the flock by the grove of pine trees, and I walk on over. As I scatter the corn, I realize Buffy is missing.

Ever since Gage assaulted me, I’ve felt unsafe. I don’t trust him. But I didn’t think the evil bastard would kill one of my babies. And yet, that’s the simplest explanation!

I charge the house and pound on the door with my fists.

“Gage, what the fuck, where’s Buffy?”

The door swings open. Gage is wearing striped boxers and a wife beater. “Jesus Christ. Hush. You’ll wake Tilly.” Gage steps out onto the porch and quietly closes the door.

“Jo, what the hell’s wrong?”

“Buffy’s gone! If you’ve hurt her, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Gage looks aghast. “Jo, why would I hurt Buffy? She’s yer pet. I know I fucked up. But I’m not a monster. Fox was sniffing around. I took a shot off the porch just yesterday. He might’ve got ‘er. But odds are she just wandered off. Hold on. Lemme throw on some pants. I’ll help ya look.”

By the time Gage catches up with me, I know he’s right. Out behind the old tractor, the red dirt is littered with Buffy’s bright copper feathers. The fox took my chicken.

Tears roll down my face. It’s all my fault. If I’d just left her alone, Buffy would still be alive. Gage stands awkward by my side. “Sorry, Jo. Shit happens. Nuthin’ you can do ‘bout it. Take the day off.” I nod, turn my back, and walk away.

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A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville