Animals Are People

A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville

Chapter 3

Man plans, God laughs. I’m fixing up Gage’s old pig pen for Ghost, and I can’t get that phrase out of my head. It’s been a rough few weeks. The fox took Ra and Fireball. They weren’t even three months old. I know it was the fox, because I caught the culprit in the act. I’d sliced up a banana, a midday snack for my chickens, and as I neared the enclosure, I knew something was wrong.

It was too quiet. The goats were in the shed, the chickens in their run. Normally they hang out together in the one-acre forest enclosure. I entered through the gate, saw feathers in the dirt, and then the fox burst out of the undergrowth, leapt a three-foot interior fence, scrambled up and over the five-foot exterior fence, and disappeared into the tall grass of the cow pasture.

I could not believe I’d lost my babies. They were protected by fences and goats. I searched all over. But other than a few feathers, there was no trace. And foxes are nocturnal. It’s the middle of the day for Christ’s sake. I wanted to kill that fox! I hated him. And I hated myself. It was my job to keep them safe, and I failed. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just a kid. I can’t be trusted.

The rest of that day, I licked my wounds. And then I got to work. I learned that foxes will take unusual risks and hunt by day when they have hungry cubs to feed. That would explain the brazen behavior. I decided I don’t hate the fox. But I do love my chicks too much to let her win. So I built a chicken yard with an eight-foot fence. It cost me two week’s salary. And the steel wire mangled my fingers. And the chickens miss their freedom. But at least they’re safe.

Or that’s what I thought until this morning when Puff the Magic Chicken limped out of the coop. It could be a sprain. Or it might be Marek’s, a deadly contagious disease that’s common in young chickens. Or, according to the Internet, it could be another dozen or so godawful afflictions. I fixed her scrambled eggs with herbs for strength. Mom says it’s cannibalistic. But Puff loves it. I don’t know what else to do without a diagnosis. Dad says you can’t take chickens to the vet.

So now I’m at Fox Holler fixing a home for Ghost while God laughs. I worked hard on my plan, but a lot can go wrong. The geezer goes to church on Sundays. No prayer will save his evil soul, but it gives me an opening. And Gage is on board. I told him the owner’s moving to an apartment, and neither the SPCA nor my parents will take a wolfdog. It’ no big deal, just a fib between friends.

Anyways, once I finish this shed, I’m ready. Ghost will have a dog house in a shed on an acre of forest with a fence. But this old pig shed is a royal pain. The only entrance is a two by two square. I guess pigs like the dark. I’m pulling off the front boards, so Ghost has a room with a view. But even with a crowbar, many of the boards won’t budge. It’s hot as hell, and I’m tired of this shit.

I wipe sweaty palms on filthy shorts and grab the sledge hammer. I plonk it into the shed and crawl in. It’s dark, but I don’t need to see. I haul back, swing hard, boards fly. I grin. This will be fun. I haul back again, and then I’m in the dirt, knees bloody, scrambling to get up and run. I felt the stings before I heard the buzz, wasps, a nest, my neck and back. Oh my God, it hurts!

Like I said, a girl plans and God laughs. But that was yesterday. Armed with chemical weapons, I got the last laugh. Now the shed is ready for Ghost. But Mom is calling, and I’m not ready for dinner. I don’t know if I can take more trauma. But it’s time. I won’t back down. So I take a seat.

Mom slides me a plate of beef brisket, cheesy mashed potatoes, and broccoli. I’m starving, and it smells too delicious. Dad joins, and we all dig in. “How’s our budding philosopher?” asks Mom.

“Not bad,” I mumble, mouth full of mash. “Aristotle, all about animals and souls, it’s interesting. But Inari assigns too much reading. She doesn’t seem to care I have a life.”

“They” says Mom. “You need to get their pronouns right.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Okay,” says Dad, “I’ve got a true-false. So, today an emu bit me, or today I nearly stepped on a copperhead, or today I learned we have a murderer next door.”

“Wait. So only one of those is a lie?” I ask. Dad nods and smirks. We only have one next door neighbor, Junior. He told Mom he mows the lawn with a gun in his lap, to shoot copperheads. Since that doesn’t count as murder, we both guess the murderer, to Dad’s clear delight.

“Wrong. No copperhead. But I did get a nasty emu bite right here on my arm. I was visiting Church Hill Farm just up the way from the pastures I lease. Bill’s kid Robert was showing me his two emus. Failed to mention they bite. Scared the hell out of me. It’s good emus have no teeth.”

Eyes twinkling, Dad shovels a heaping forkful of beef brisket into his big ol’ grin. “Okay,” says Mom, definitely not smiling, “Enough with the dramatic pause, Will. What about the murderer?”

“So, it’s not exactly next door,” says Dad, upon finishing his exaggerated show of chewing and swallowing. “It’s diagonal, the one with the Confederate flag on the toolshed. Bill says they’re the Golddiggers. That’s their last name. For real. They’ve rented that old place forever. Friends and family come and go, and things get wild. Lots of drinking, lots of drugs. So one day, two brothers got in a fight. Now one’s in jail, other’s six feet under. Trouble is, Bill says, older brother was the enforcer. So things got crazier after he was locked up. That’s how Bill put it. The story’s much better in a Southern accent. It’s like a country music song. You simply can’t make this stuff up!”

“Jesus Christ!” says Mom.

“I had the same reaction,” says Dad. “And you know what Bill said? He told me not to worry. They’re not robbers.”

Dad thinks it’s funny. So do I. Though it’s scary too. Mom is clearly not amused, but before she can unload, Dad says, “Hey Jo, why aren’t you eating your brisket?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“What?” asks Dad. No more grin.

“I don’t eat meat.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Mom.

“No, really. Factory farming is evil. I’ve decided.”

“But, Jo, you love bacon and sausage and fried chicken and brisket. And you need protein. You’ve never mentioned vegetarianism before. What’s brought this on?” asks Mom.

Before I can answer, Dad stands up and storms out. The front door slams. Mom and I sit in silence. I hear the tick-tock of the clock.

“What on earth did you expect, Jo?” asks Mom. “Your dad’s a beef farmer for God’s sake!”

So that went well. After dinner, I hid my brisket in the freezer for Ghost. Now I’m in bed reading a book that the Scottsville librarian suggested when I told her of my plan to shift to a plant-based diet. It’s by a vegan ultramarathon champion who obviously gets enough protein. I’m not sure I can go vegan. Mom would kill me.

I’m worried about Dad. I knew he’d take it personally. I’ll ask Inari for advice tomorrow, since they’re vegan. I drop the book, kill the lights, and drift off into never-never land.

It’s the wildfires. That’s why Inari is late. They weren’t sure if they’d be forced to evacuate. I always thought of the Pacific Northwest as rainy. But Inari says they’re in a terrible drought. Inari seems happy that I’m a vegetarian. Their words of wisdom for Dad were “give him time.” Since Inari and I are bonding over not eating animals, I figure it’s as good a time as any to tackle pronouns.

“So, Inari, I have another question. I slip up sometimes and use ‘she’ instead of ‘they’ when I talk about you. Mom scolds me. And I do try to get it right. But I don’t understand. I think of you as female. Can you explain?”

“Wow, wildfire to vegan to trans, I’ve got whiplash,” says Inari. Their smile doesn’t reach their eyes. “I don’t normally discuss my gender with students, but I’ll give you the vocabulary. So, the best words are non-binary and genderqueer. I don’t identify as male or female. That you think of me as female, well, it hurts my feelings. But you’re not alone. People misgender me all the time. I’ve been called both “sir” and “miss” in the space of minutes. That’s why I always tell students and colleagues my pronouns. But if you want to learn more, that’s on you. Make sense?”

I’ve heard of nonbinary but not genderqueer. I’ll look it up later. I’m also curious who Inari is attracted to. Mom told me that Inari once had a husband. But even I know that asking about that is a bridge too far.

“Yes. Thanks. And I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“No worries. It’s actually a good segue. Nobody’s had a bigger impact on the classification of living beings than Aristotle. You might even call him the father of false binaries. But I don’t mean to bias you, Jo. What did you think of the History of Animals?”

“I was impressed. He sure knew a lot for someone living thousands of years ago. He describes the anatomy of hundreds of animals from crawfish to hedgehogs to goats in amazing detail.”

“Yes. That’s why Aristotle is not only known as a great philosopher but also as the first scientist and as a pioneer of ethology, the study of non-human animal behavior. What else?”

“Well, after a while, I started wondering how he knew what he knew. I mean, Aristotle talks about the bones of camels, crocodiles, elephants, and lions; and he describes the reproductive habits of dolphins and octopuses in great detail. How could he possibly know all that?”

“Great question! He could only learn so much by scampering around in sandals and a tunic on the island of Lesbos. To be fair, his former student Alexander the Great sent specimens from Africa and Asia. But his direct observation is mixed with folklore, fables, and hearsay. And it’s not even his published works that survived. What we’re left with are mostly his lecture notes.”

“What’s funny, Inari, is I kept fact checking him, and sometimes he was right. Like he said stags have maggots living in their heads, which is both disgusting and true. But other times he was wrong, like when he said if a new mom swallows a hair, she’ll get a pain in her breast, until it’s sucked out with the milk. I mean, it just sounds gross and absurd, and it’s not true. I checked.”

“You’re right. Aristotle is a confounding mix of insight and absurdity. Here, let me read some passages and get your response: ‘Man sheds his teeth, and so do other animals, as the horse, the mule, and the ass,’ and ‘The human stomach is like that of a dog, not a great deal larger than the entrail, but like a wide bowel; after this there is an entrail simply rolled together, then an entrail of moderate width. The lower part of the abdomen is like that of a hog, for it is wide, and from this to the seat it is short and thick.’ So what do you notice, Jo?”

“Well, he includes humans in his studies, which is both interesting and disgusting.”

“Exactly. Aristotle understood that people are animals. But then he says, ‘Man sleeps the most of all animals,’ and ‘In proportion to his size, man has the largest brain of all animals.’ He’s wrong on both counts, by the way. Even ants have a larger brain to body mass ratio than humans. And with respect to who sleeps the most, Aristotle must have never met a koala, a sloth, or a dog.”

“No kidding! I highlighted the most annoying claims. Aristotle says man is a ‘perfect animal’ and ‘man is the only animal capable of reasoning, though many others possess the faculty of memory and instruction in common with him. No other animal but man has the power of recollection.’ It doesn’t even make sense. Aren’t memory and recollection the same thing?”

“Ah yes. Aristotle dedicates an entire lecture to this topic. He says slow people have good memories while the quick-witted are superior at learning and recollecting. I don’t buy Aristotle’s distinction, and I share your frustration with his incessant human exceptionalism. But let’s shift gears and talk about the other work I assigned, On the Soul. How does Aristotle define the soul?”

My stomach is rumbling. It must not like being vegetarian. Class should be over soon, but it appears we may run late. Let’s see if we can make this quick. “I was confused at first, since he doesn’t define it. Aristotle calls the soul ‘the principle of animal life’ and says that ‘to attain any assured knowledge about the soul is one of the most difficult things in the world.’ I was thinking in terms of religion. But then I realized he’s investigating the origin of life. He says, ‘plants and certain insects go on living when divided into segments; this means that each of the segments has a soul,’ and ‘from this it indubitably follows that the soul is inseparable from its body.’”

“Yes, Jo, nice work! It’s partly a translation problem. The Greek word psychē means life or consciousness, whereas the English word evokes an immaterial, immortal spirit. Unlike Plato, Aristotle did not believe in mind-body dualism. Okay, so how does Aristotle classify souls?”

“First, there’s the nutritive soul, responsible for nutrition and growth, common to all plants and animals. Then, animals have a sensitive soul, responsible for movement and sensation. But only humans have a calculative soul, capable of reason and rationality.”

“Right, Jo. Now, I know we’re short on time, so I’ll make a few points to set us up for next week. First, Aristotle is famous for organizing all living beings into a taxonomy. He splits those with and without blood, hot and cold blooded, live-bearing and egg-laying, and by number of legs. Aristotle’s work is mostly descriptive, but he does conjure a hierarchy by asserting ‘after the birth of animals, plants exist for their sake, and the other animals exist for the sake of man.’ And he doesn’t stop there. In Politics, he states, ‘it is clear, then, that some men are by nature free, and others slaves, and that for these latter, slavery is both expedient and right,’ and ‘the male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; and the one rules, and the other is ruled; this principle, of necessity, extends to all mankind.’ So, Jo, it’s all perfectly rational, right?”

“Well, Inari, now we know who’s to blame for slavery and sexism.” I’d say more, but I’m hangry. It was hard to pass up bacon at breakfast. And I have no idea what to eat for lunch. My nutritive soul is dying. How in the world do vegans not starve to death? And it’s less than 48 hours until Operation Free Ghost. The closer it gets to go time, the more I worry. It’s hard to pay attention.

“Aristotle didn’t invent patriarchy, Jo, but he sure helped sustain it. As we’ll see next week, his intertwingling of science and philosophy is dangerous and prophetic. Okay, that’s all for today.”

I’m hungry. But there’s not much to eat. I nibble on a wild raspberry. It’s yellow, which is odd, but it smells and tastes so good. The juice tickles my lips. I wish there were more berries. I see Peppermint behind me. Anger wells up. Foraging so close is a challenge to my authority. I turn and deliver a solid headbutt to her backside. She bleats in protest yet skitters away. Pathetic!

I nibble on a leaf. It’s green but smells wrong. So I move along. A dreadful screeching noise seizes my attention. My body tenses — ready to run. But my sisters are nearby. Best to stay close. I swivel my ears to pinpoint the sound. A blue pickup shambles up the dusty road. We hear it once or twice every day. The truck hasn’t attacked in the past. But you never know. I watch until the threat rumbles up over the hill, and the mechanical shriek fades into memory.

I wander over to the gate. I nibble and nudge the bungee cord. If only I can learn the trick. I know there’s delicious food in the pastures and forests. We can all go together. I see Ginsberg coming, spin and rear up. Our heads slam together. We do it again and again. Until she quits. It’s not a real challenge. Just play. She’s as bored as I am. There’s nothing to eat but dry hay. We poop. Then I squat to pee. We stand together. We belch. We chew cud. We all stare out the gate.

I need to pee so bad. I hop out of bed and use the toilet. It’s happened again. Another ghostly vision. I must have fallen down a rabbit hole, because I swear to God, I’m mad as a hatter. This time I dreamed I’m a goat. Toffy to be specific. I know, because I could see Ginsberg, Eva, and Peppermint all at once. Panoramic vision is cool. And it felt great to know my place. To be part of the herd. But the boredom sucked. I’m guilty. I need to make life better for my goats.

I don’t know how. I thought an acre of forest would suffice. But they stripped it bare in three months. No more seedlings. No more raspberries or pokeberries. I hear Mom in the kitchen. The treacherous scent of bacon wafts up the stairs. But instead of hungry, I feel queasy. Maybe that’s because, only minutes ago, I was a goat. Anyways, I might as well get up. In the ominous words of Dad’s beloved U2, it’s Sunday Bloody Sunday. Today is the day that I save Ghost, or die trying.

I pull into the geezer’s driveway right on time. He’ll have left for church fifteen minutes ago, God willing. I’m not religious. But I’ve got the lingo. Mom dragged me to Presbyterian church, until I became a teenager and refused confirmation. Even so, I’m praying now. As Dad says, “there are no atheists in foxholes.” Which is funny, since Dad’s an atheist. He’s still pissed about the whole vegetarian thing. But at least Dad let me borrow the pickup “to haul farm stuff for Gage.”

I’ve tied down the dog crate in the truck bed and slapped duct tape on both license plates. I’m wearing jeans and Dad’s blue flannel shirt. My hair is pulled up under an old baseball cap. And I’ve turned off my phone. I decided not to wear gloves, since I can’t imagine they’ll analyze DNA over a stolen wolfdog. I stop near the top of the drive, retrieve my trail cam, and keep going.

As I approach the shabby cottage, there’s no sign of Ghost. Is she locked inside? I hope the evil bastard hasn’t hurt her! Am I too late? I cut the engine, step out, close the door, open the tailgate. It’s too quiet, like when the fox took my chickens. I creep onto the porch. The boards creek, of course. Through a grubby window, I make out a table, four chairs, a cast iron wood stove. But no dog. I could try calling her. But if Ghost’s in there, what am I going to do? Smash the window? Break down the door? Maybe. I don’t know. Seriously, what the fuck do I do now?

Leaves rustle. My body tenses. What the hell was that? I turn. But there’s nothing to see. It’s quiet, no breeze. I am imagining things. And I need to get moving. I can’t linger. He’ll be back. Or maybe it came from under the porch? I slink down the steps, slowly lower myself into an awkward crouch, peer into the dark. I’m terrified of snakes. Please God, don’t let it be snakes!

At the edge of darkness, I spy a huge white paw. It’s Ghost. I can’t tell if she’s alive. But she rustled leaves. So she must be. I pull beef jerky from the big pocket of my flannel shirt, hold it out, call to her. She inches towards me, out of the dark, then gingerly takes the jerky. I stop holding my breath, rise slowly, step back, offer a second strip. Ghost crawls out from under.

Up close, she’s enormous! And her yellow-orange eyes are pure wolf. Ghost steps forward. I notice she’s limping. My heart aches. I want to give her a big hug. But instead I crouch, hold out my hand, and wait for her to come to me. Ghost ignores the beef jerky. She steps close. And, then she licks my lips. I stay still. I don’t breathe. I let her soft tongue open my mouth. She licks my teeth and my tongue. I’ve read about wolf greetings. So, I know it’s not aggressive, but still.

Ghost pulls back and gently takes the jerky from my hand. I reach out and stroke her neck and body. Her thick white outer coat is coarse. My fingers probe her soft undercoat. And I can feel her ribs. Under all that fur, she’s skin and bones. I guess she’s decided I’m okay. So I hop onto the open tailgate, and I hold out more beef. I’m asking for a leap of faith. And Ghost takes it!

As I pull into Fox Holler, I’m on top of the world. My plan worked. I back into the enclosure, open the gate, the liftgate, and the crate. Ghost takes a strip of jerky from my hand, eats, then hops down. Limping, but not too bad, she explores the enclosure. It doesn’t take long to find the bowl of dog food and beef brisket in the pig shed. She eats it all, drinks water, lies down. I sit beside her and laugh out loud. My plan worked. God, I’m so happy. Ghost is home.

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A chapter from Animals Are People by Peter Morville