Our Relationships With Animals Make Us Human, By, Carolyn Haft

Our Relationships With Animals Make Us Human

By, Carolyn Haft, First Unitarian Congregational Society, July 20, 2015

 

            Do you remember your first pet? Now see if you can recall the memory of picking it out from the litter and holding it for the first time, or realizing the solemn responsibility of caring for another living creature. My first pets were three little tortoises that lived in a tank. My sister and I named the one with red ears Rosebud. We couldn’t pick them up or cuddle with them, and they sometimes snapped at my fingers when I tried to hand-feed them their lettuce. But I’d watch, mesmerized, as they crawled and climbed around their habitat with serious purpose, and imagine what it would be like if my entire world comprised a glass tank with pink sand, some rocks and fake ferns.

            In her book Adam’s Task, the animal trainer and poet Vicky Hearne retells the story of the Fall of Adam and Eve from Eden. God had given Adam and Eve “dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon earth.” Paradise was a place where all creatures were domesticated—Adam’s task was to name the animals, and this power allowed him to command them. Then, as the story goes, Adam and Eve themselves failed to obey God’s command not to eat from the tree of Knowledge. When these curious, easily distracted human beings were expelled from Eden, a few animals went with them, but most animals chose Nature over human society; they chose to be wild, leaving behind domesticity and the obligations and protections it entailed. They chose, instead, freedom and risk. The Creation story of Genesis contains a poignant loss for humanity: by choosing to become “worldly,” Adam and Eve gave up our intimate relationship with all but a few animals.

            We humans are still trying to reconnect with the wild, and to deepen our bonds with the domesticated animals in our midst. It only takes a spark of recognition, and even we New Yorkers can allow these encounters to bring deeper meaning to our lives. When evening is falling and the streets are quiet, the birdsong rises and calls us to listen; we may walk a little more slowly, breathe a little more deeply. When the cat curls up in the pool of winter sunlight on the floor, we might be reminded to appreciate comfort where we find it; we may snuggle more luxuriously under the blanket, or give a friend a warm smile. When the dog next door whimpers and whines inconsolably, willing its owner home, our irritation may give way to compassion for its uncomprehending, albeit temporary, suffering. We respond to animals emotionally; you might say, instinctively.

            In these responses lie the seeds of our own humanity. I would argue that the qualities of awareness and compassion, which are vital to a fulfilling life, can only be fully expressed when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, generous, and playful. In other words, we need to see ourselves in relation to other beings to truly be our best selves. We need to embrace the interdependent web of all life, following the seventh Unitarian Universalist principle, to be proper stewards of the earth and all its inhabitants,

 

Vulnerability

            We can’t do this if, like Adam and Eve, we think only of our own immediate desires. My imaginary sojourns in my tortoises’ world were a first step toward awareness of the needs and consciousness of animals. Tortoises’ feelings are notoriously hard to interpret, but many people possess an ability to understand animals in ways that help both the animals and the human profoundly. Temple Grandin is a prominent proponent of animal welfare. As an autistic child, Grandin had difficulty communicating; she felt fearful and isolated around other children, but she was comfortable around the cows on her family’s farm. She attributes her awareness of animals’ needs to her autism. The time she spent with animals allowed her to understand how they experienced the world. She writes in her book, Animals in Translation, that autistic people and animals “see, feel and think in remarkably similar ways.” Grandin’s identification with the animals in feedlots enabled her to design humane techniques for their care that are now the industry standard.

            For several years through my early teens, my parents sent me to horseback-riding camp. It had a lake, tennis courts, and arts and crafts, too, but for me, the stables were the center of that universe. I loved to ride and I was one of those horse-crazy girls who dreamed of bringing my favorite mount home to live in my apartment on the 33^rd floor. Being able to stay in the saddle is only one of the skills needed to ride a horse that weighs more than a thousand pounds and can bite and kick, buck and roll if it chooses not to cooperate. I had to learn to “read” the horses in order to care for and command them effectively. I learned by watching and imitating Mary, the stable manager. Everyone at camp thought she was strange; she had a fascination with ghosts and flinched if anyone touched her. Though prickly around people, probably—I now realize—suffering from post-traumatic stress, Mary was gifted with the horses: calm, authoritative and kind, and they were devoted to her. She knew how to soothe them after a long day carrying campers around the dusty ring; she knew which horses would become distressed in a thunderstorm and which ones liked to swim in the lake on a hot day. She was attuned to their needs and preferences and showed us stable helpers how to be. Like Temple Grandin, Mary “thought like a horse;” she could see the world through their eyes, so she understood that they craved work and affection; consistent training and care, and the occasional carrot. The more I learned from Mary about how to read the horses, the better rider I became.

            When my 22-year marriage came to an end a couple of years ago, I set out to establish a new life and a home for my two sons and myself. Once the basics were in place, an apartment, new routines and adjustments, the profound silence when the kids were living in their other home with their father was deafening. My heart had an overflow of affection and maternal instinct that had no outlet for half the time, and I was in danger of smothering my own children with my pent-up energy when they were around. The answer was obvious to me: I needed to get a dog. I needed a receptive, emotional, real love-object that could get me out of the house, would always be happy to see me and would offer an endless supply of unconditional love. I needed a dog that needed me just as much. Charlie and I began to troll the online rescue sites and fell in love at first sight with a 3-year-old golden retriever mix. When we went to meet her, she was catatonic, shaking, terrified. In her soft brown eyes I could read the question, Are you going to hurt me? We took her home and renamed her Ariel, after the sprite freed by Prospero in The Tempest; but it was weeks before she came out of her shell. She refused to walk up and down the three flights of stairs to go for a walk, so I carried her; she had to be crate-trained like a puppy; she was listless and didn’t want to eat. I spent a lot of time talking to her, stroking her silky fur, and just being present. Eventually, she barked her disapproval when I left the apartment and she wagged her tail and greeted me when I returned. That was the turning point. Her communication was pure love, and I knew we would be OK.

            What I believe is at the heart of these stories, what I have in common with Temple Grandin and Mary the stable manager, is an awareness of our own vulnerability. Each of us had an injured soul when we came to love an animal, and each of us—I’m only inferring about the other two women I’ve discussed—were comforted not only by the good we were doing helping an animal in need but by the spiritual connection we felt and, dare I say, the compassion that our animals expressed to us. I know that developing my relationship with Ariel has broken down some of my emotional defenses and helped me to have more open and meaningful relationships with other people.

            Now, I’ve just admitted in public that I talk to my dog on a regular basis, but I am definitely not of the opinion that having a pet—or many pets—is a replacement for human relationships. However, urban life is complicated, and our social lives are trending toward becoming more “virtual” through social media. Our relationships with our pets and the animals around us are like oases in the often cold and anonymous city. How restorative is it to walk through the door after a long and frustrating day dealing with a classroom of pre-pubescent students, or a difficult boss, or a stifling subway commute… to be greeted joyfully by an animal whose existence seems to revolve around us? Their unquestioning acceptance, loyalty, and trust is a balm—how many of us can say the same for our colleagues, our friends, or even our families? While the people in our lives have their own issues, needs, priorities and values that may conflict with our own, our relationships with pets are generally simple and elemental. Pets rely on us to provide for all of their needs, and no matter how benevolent we are, there is an imbalance in this relationship. I am the Alpha dog in our home.

 

Interdependent Web

            With that position comes great responsibility, of course. There are, sadly, some pet owners that mistreat and neglect their pets. My guess is that Ariel’s former owner was one. They see these animals as objects on which to unleash their feelings of anger and powerlessness. They have forgotten or become blind to the human pact to protect and shelter those that depend on us, represented in the Bible by Noah’s meticulous collection of all those pairs of animals. An article from The Greater Good Center at UC Berkeley, titled “Animal Compassion,” states that cruelty toward animals in young people is a strong indicator of future violence toward other people. “The absence of empathy for one indicates lack of empathy for the other.” It goes on to state, “studies of prison inmates reveal that as many as 75 percent of violent offenders had early records of animal cruelty.” Sometimes criticized as a “First World” problem, animal rights may seem limited in focus. How can we worry about an obscure species of owl when there is malnutrition, poverty and violence in our country and in the world? And yet, if we fail to protect the animals in our midst, our world will crumble. Like canaries in a coalmine, animals are our warning system not only about disturbed individuals who need our help, but also about environmental disasters. The honeybees are dying off due to pesticides; polar bears are rapidly losing their habitat due to climate change: we must allow ourselves to be moved by their plight, caused directly by human actions, or our planet is doomed. Not only is it in our self-interest to protect animals and their habitats, we must consider that animals are sentient and emotional beings. In the words of St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals,

 

Not to hurt our humble brethren (the animals) 
Is our first duty to them, but to stop there is not enough. 
We have a higher mission:
To be of service to them whenever they require it.

 

            Just as ignoring the soul inside an animal can lead to abuse and neglect, recognizing it can create compassion and generosity. For me, once having looked into Ariel’s eyes at the shelter, I can no longer look away from the beggar on the street; I must at least offer him a smile, to show him that I acknowledge him as a human being like me. Ultimately, allowing ourselves to connect with the animals in our lives makes for a more humane, just, and beloved world.