Animals Are People

A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville

Chapter 24

I freewheel down the hill to our farm, and the breeze is delicious. To muck stalls and groom horses in this heat is no fun. I’m sick to death of Fox Holler. I’d quit, but I need the cash to care for my animals. As the slope gentles, a kaleidoscope of black and yellow swallowtails stops my beating heart, and I recall Zhuangzi. Perhaps I’m a butterfly dreaming I’m a girl. What if none of this is real?

At home, I rinse off and sit for supper. Mom serves Tuscan bean stew. Dad pours red wine. I dip a hunk of baguette into the stew, and oh, it’s so damn good. For a hot second, we just eat. Then Mom says, “Jo, isn’t tomorrow your last class with Inari? How are you feeling?” I can’t answer. My mouth is full. Spike’s cock-a-doodle-doowoowoo breaks the silence. I wash down the bread with wine.

“Yes. It’s our last class. And I’m sad. Mom, if Inari and I didn’t have the book to work on together, I don’t know what I’d do. Inari is my best friend. Can we please not talk about it? Seriously. I’m going to cry.”

“I’ve got a true-false,” says Dad, raising his glass. Today I saw three bears in Bill’s corn field, or this morning I talked with a neighbor who collects copperheads, or this afternoon I heard an animal sanctuary down the way got a cowboy on a horse to lasso a donkey in order to rescue it.”

“I’ll take the copperheads,” says Mom. I guess the cowboy.

“Ha! You’re both wrong. No bears.”

“There’s an animal sanctuary nearby?” I ask.

“Yep, off Blenheim. We pass it all the time. Never noticed it before. Anyway, they were asked to rescue three donkeys. They got two using snacks as bait. But the third was too smart. The mom and daughter spent hours in the tall grass chasing the donkey around a two-acre field. As a last resort, they called in a cowboy, a guy they know who rodeos. He roped the donkey lickety-split, but it set off at a run. So he’s racing behind on horseback when that wily donkey wraps the rope around the only telephone pole in the field. Next thing you know, cowboy’s flat on his back.”

“Was he okay?” asks Mom.

“Jumped up with a grin on his face, still holding the rope!”

“Wow!” says Mom. So what’s up with the copperheads?”

“I was searching for a missing heifer — don’t worry, she turned up — and I met Jon. He’s a few houses down on the other side. And lemme tell ya, the man adores snakes! He goes out on summer nights to save copperheads off the road; grabs ‘em, bags ‘em, and lets ‘em go in deep woods. I asked why he didn’t kill ‘em. You shoulda seen the hurt look. He’s crazy over those damn snakes. Once, while hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he came upon an enormous timber rattlesnake — five foot long and fat as a boardinghouse cat — and you know what Jon did? He squished that big ole rattler into a plastic grocery bag, tied the top, and put it in the trunk of his Subaru Outback. Jon wanted to show his kids. Of course, the snake got loose on the highway. So Jon had to pull over right quick and set it free. The man is crazy as an outhouse rat!”

“I think it’s cool that he saves copperheads. I want to meet him. And I want to visit the sanctuary too. I didn’t know we had folks around here who care about animals. I thought it was all hunters and farmers, no offense, Dad.”

Next morning, I’m right on time for class. Once again, the video is on, but there’s no Inari. I already had butterflies in my stomach, since today’s my final exam. Now I’m even more worried. I hope Inari is okay. I pat the bed, and Ghost jumps up. I caress her lush white coat and gaze into those yellow-orange eyes. I see why the wolf is painted a monster in folklore and fairy tales. Her eyes are as terrifying as they are beautiful. A movement catches my eye. Inari is using a walker. They are so feeble and slow, it’s difficult to watch. At last, they slump into the chair, clearly out of breath.

“Just a minute, Jo. Let me catch my wind.”

“Sure. No rush. We can reschedule if you want.”

Inari shakes their head. I wait.

“Sorry, Jo. I’m okay now. Let’s start the final exam for Animals Are People. The format is simple. I ask questions. You give answers. In your own words. Listen, Jo, I want you to take risks and have fun. Alright?”

“Yep.” It’s not as if Inari is going to fail me. But my armpits are downright swampy. Why am I so nervous?

“Jo, what is philosophy?”

Oh God! My mind is a blank slate. “Um. Philosophy is the love of wisdom. And the search for truth and meaning. And, uh, philosophy is the study of questions about reality, sentience, reason, knowledge, and morality.”

“Jo, that’s a good answer, but I know you can do better.”

“Mary Midgley says philosophy is like plumbing, invisible yet essential, taken for granted, until something goes wrong. Well — Hello, World! — we’re up to our eyeballs in shit-filled toilet water, and there ain’t no plumber. Our civilization is self-terminating. Humans torment and consume trillions of animals a year. We are destroying our own habitat in the process. We need philosophy now, since we need to change how we think and who we value. It’s not good enough to embrace climate change adaptation; that’s just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.”

“Go on, Jo.”

“We must strike at the root of the metacrisis: man’s belief in Dominion. To say people are animals is science, but to see animals as people is philosophy. Indigenous peoples know animals are kin — and that humans are a part of, and not apart from — nature. It’s our culture that is the aberration. We are Takers not Leavers, splitters not lumpers, supremacists who say we are special, speciesists who act as if might makes right. We must abolish the moral circle. Everyone matters or nobody matters. Cancel Dominion to stop the Flood. That’s my philosophy!”

“Good. That’s what I want, Jo. Now, you defined philosophy as the search for truth. What is truth?”

Inari did not come to play. It makes sense. To them, this exam is final, as in, last one ever. Time to stand and deliver!

“My bad. Truth is a dangerous word. I prefer honesty. Am I honest with myself and others? That is a better question, since honesty is the path to mindfulness. The trouble with truth is the word. It’s a category, yet life is spectral. In metaphysics, we define truth as correspondence with reality, but that invokes epistemology. How do we know what is real? Our perceptions are shadows on the wall. And, rationality is hallucinogenic. Descartes says animals are automata. Dennett thinks we’re all zombies. Motivated reasoning is a hell of a drug. Science helps, but objectivity is a null set, and the lens is narrow. We study what we can quantify — space between objects, time between events — and we miss what counts. It’s a human conceit to frame science or philosophy as the search for truth. Inari, honesty is the best we can do. The truth is a lie.”

“Rationality is Hallucinogenic — I want that bumper sticker! Jo, how are space and time related?”

“I can tell you space and time are relative, that time slows the faster you move, and spacetime is a four-dimensional continuum. But none of that makes sense to me. The truth is, I don’t know.”

“Good answer, Jo. Neither do I. You said that philosophy is the study of morality. What is moral?”

“A wise teacher told me that morality is a mess we can’t make sense of. Purists isolate motives, consequences, laws, or relationships as the foundation of ethics. But all are in play. And it can’t be reduced to reason. Disgust, shame, pride, anger, guilt, compassion, and gratitude are moral emotions, and they run deep. Morality is a tribal instinct. As the result of natural selection, our definition of us and them is fluid. Our empathy switch enables dynamic classification by place of origin, race, gender, sexual orientation, ideology, age, attractiveness, and species.”

“Don’t stop, Jo.”

“We adore cats and dogs. Yet we eat pigs and wear cows. We say that love wins. Yet we rationalize genocide. Hannah Arendt is right. Evil is banal. We are all sociopaths! Inari, the only cure is tradition rooted in wisdom. Culture is the cure for our worst instincts. The only sustainable story is that humans are part of nature, animals are our kin, and consciousness is what counts.”

Fuck! I hate my answer. This is my last goddamn chance to show Inari that I am a serious philosopher. And I’m choking like a dog. Worse. I’m regurgitating. I’m parroting other people’s ideas. What am I — a fucking AI chatbot?

“Jo, what’s up? You okay?”

“No. I hate my answers. I’m failing the exam. And I’m sad. Inari, this is our last class. My best friend is suffering and dying. They can barely walk or talk. And I can’t help, at all. There is nothing I can say that will make it better.”

“Oh, Jo — you being you — is all the help I need. And don’t be so damn hard on yourself. I’m asking wicked questions. Try making your answers a bit more personal, less abstract. Jo, if you’re having fun, I’m having fun. Alright?”

My best friend is dying. The world is on fire. Fun! Seriously? Maybe that’s the trick: to not be serious. The end of life is death — ya pop yer clogs — and that’s all she wrote. As long as I’m here, I might as well do my cotton pickin’ best to be me: smart as a whip, sassy as a jaybird!

“Inari, you asked ‘what is moral?’ Let’s consider the case of the alpacas. Since the Golden Rule applies to all sentient beings, it would be immoral to do nothing. Nobody wants to starve to death. Stealing the alpacas breaks the law and harms the owner. Yet it saves the herd and eases my conscience. Offering to buy the alpacas rewards evil. And the owner may refuse. Reporting is a crapshoot. I don’t trust the police or animal control. There’s no easy out. There’s no moral high ground. And, Inari, you can’t solve the problem with philosophy. In the real world, morality is what you do. I save animals. Is there risk? Sure. But, in the face of injustice, I act. In my book, that is moral.”

“You are a warrior. I respect that. Who is sentient?”

“Solipsism, the belief that only one’s own mind is known to exist, is a seductive idea. Since, you know, we’re all narcissistic sociopaths. But it’s also dumb. I think, therefore I hallucinate. So how do I even know I exist? And all our relationships hinge on theory of mind. If I steal the last slice of pepperoni, Mom will think Dad ate it, and vice versa. If I visit my hens, they will squawk, until I give them a snack. Dad says the hunter must become the hunted to predict the behavior of their prey. So, we act as if animals are conscious, no matter what we say. Is a mosquito sentient? Yes. Her senses enable her to find you, and her emotions reward her as she happily quaffs your blood.”

“Lovely, Jo.”

“Is mosquito girl as sentient as you? I don’t know. But if sentience is spectral, I seriously doubt that humans reign at the peak. You can be both intelligent and unfeeling. Hell, in our society, it’s a fucking advantage! Is a tree sentient? Yes. The umwelten of trees are alien — less I, more us. A grove of trees is contemplative, subject to melancholy. Is a rock? I don’t know. Mary Oliver asks if stones feel, if they love their life. And she replies, ‘Most of the world says no, no, it’s not possible. I refuse to think to such a conclusion. Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.’”

“Ah, and what say you, Jo?”

“I don’t know about rocks. But I see wisdom in animism. It’s the opposite of Dominion. Animism is a useful and sustainable belief, and a beautiful way to be in the world.”

“Oh, Jo, how I love Mary Oliver!”

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

“I too ‘want to step through the door full of curiosity.’ Ah, I’m sorry to dilly dally. I grow more like your tree every day. But what a lovely answer — philosophy melts into poetry,”

A cough wracks their body and severs their sentence. Inari coughs and coughs and coughs. I don’t know what to do. I search ‘911 boring oregon’ and find the fire department. I’m dialing emergency dispatch when the heaving subsides. Inari nods, holds up a hand, drinks water.

“Sorry, Jo. I’m okay.”

“I was so worried. Let’s take a break. You should rest.”

“No. I’ll see this through. Last question. What is wisdom?”

“Wisdom is dead. Ask the elephants. The oldest female leads. In times of drought, only the matriarch remembers the way to water. But man erects fences and dams rivers. If their path is blocked or the water is gone, the herd dies. Memory is worthless in times of change. For ancient tribes of gatherer-hunters, the ecosystem and culture were stable, so the experience and insight of elders had value. Now, oldsters are obsolete. Grandpa can’t fix my computer or get me a job. Under technocapitalism, we move fast and break things. We privatize profit and socialize cost. Pollution, climate change, suffering, and extinction are externalities with no line on any balance sheet. In modernity, there is simply no place for wisdom. We are all utterly and completely fucked. Just like the elephants.”

“Is that your final answer, Jo?”

Inari needs more. I can see it in their eyes. But I don’t know what to say. I’m so exhausted. My well has run dry. A fragment of ancient verse crosses my mind — with joy shall ye draw water — and I find my voice.

“No! That’s not the way I want to end. Wisdom is endangered, yet it still lives. But you won’t find it in a book. Unlike data, information, and knowledge, wisdom is embedded in a culture or embodied in an individual. Personal wisdom is relative and relational. A teacher is able to help a student, not only by drawing upon a richer mental model, with a bigger here and a longer now, but also by knowing the student better than they know themselves.”

Inari is all nods and smiles. I’m on the right path.

“Wisdom is knowing that you and Gandhi are right. Means are to ends as seeds are to trees. Wisdom is the grace of a band playing music on a sinking ship. Inari, wisdom is knowing that what I say now matters — because wisdom is a gift. You taught me that philosophy is for all of us. You showed me the art of argument. I always knew that animals are people. Now I can explain why.”

I glance at Inari and take a breath. I want to get this right.

“Wisdom is saying, ‘I love you,’ before it’s too late. And I do. Inari, I love you! You are my best teacher. You are my best friend. I am forever grateful for your wisdom, and for the gift of time with you.”

“Oh Jo,” says Inari, tears in their eyes. “I love you too! And, your answer is beautiful, thank you! I know the test is hard. But you are brilliant. I am so proud of us. In delivering my last lecture with spirit and flair, you have earned the title of Animal Philosopher. Jo, I hope you wear it well. And without further ado, we are done. Class dismissed.”

“Inari, when can we talk about the book?”

“Let’s take a break — say two weeks — to clear our minds.”

Inari coughs, swallows, sips water, then sighs.

“Jo, I’ll be in touch, alright?”

Later, I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. For the past year, since we moved, philosophy has been my keystone. I organized my routine around it. And Inari is my rock. What will I do tomorrow? How will I fill the gap? Two weeks is too long! I’m agitated and impatient. I can’t wait. Life is way too short to waste time. My heart is racing, and my mind is on fire. I’m so bloody angry. All I see is red.

One moment, I’m perched on a branch, and the next, I’m airborne. I dive towards my enemy at full tilt. What an asshole! How dare he? Glittering in the sun, endless shades of emerald green and iridescent red, I must admit, he is beautiful. But it’s my territory! And I need a hit, bad. As I approach, he lifts and tilts back into an inverted hover. What a poser! I dart right at him. He turns tail and disappears without a trace. What a coward!

The nectar is delicious. It’s salty, not sweet, and reminiscent of soy sauce. A flicker catches my eye. It’s that bastard cat. He can’t get me. There’s a window. But still. In a blur, I’m in the meadow, kaleidoscopic sounds and scents, more colors than I ever knew. I near a mass of red-orange flowers, coral honeysuckle, then veer away at the bad smell. Ants. Yuck! I decide to sample the patch of monarda. It’s had time to refill with nectar. On the way over, I hear the tantalizing buzz of a mosquito. I zig. She zags. I follow suit — and swallow her whole — yum!

The meadow is alive. I am awash in sensory information, acrid odors of ants and bees, songs of crickets and katydids, dancing rainbows of songbirds and butterflies, ambrosias of wildflowers. A map in my mind catalogs all the flowers that I’ve tasted. I visit only the ones that are most likely to be rich in nectar: azaleas, honeysuckle, monarda, and purple sage. I drink my fill and then some. I rest momentarily on a branch in the shade. Then I lift, hover, and fly. I’m so happy to be freebeing. Life is a gift.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville