Assigning Agency—Part 1

We humans are hard-wired to believe in agency. It's literally in our genes. Philosophers and psychologists use the term agency to designate a thing or a person that acts to produce a particular result. The word has its root in the medieval Latin word agentia, which means “doing.”

We tend to believe that things don't just happen by themselves—something or someone caused them. If I am walking through the woods at night, for example, and hear an unusual sound behind me, I'm very likely to attribute that sound to something... maybe a bear! Why do we do this? Those deep ancestors of ours who assigned agency to that sound were more likely to survive than those who ignored it and walked on. Better to have believed in a false alarm (it may have been just a twig falling from a tree), than to become a bear's meal. Those ancestors who jumped and ran at the sound survived to pass on their genes. Those who walked on perished, along with their complacent genes.

When we first began assigning agency to events, we also began to create gods. That bad storm last week? A god caused it. The lack of animals to hunt in recent weeks? Something must have caused it... something more powerful than I. Does that something (or someone) not like me? What could I do to earn its favor? Over time, our ancient ancestors engaged in rituals based on the belief that they could influence the agents (gods) of the winds, rain, and lightning. Unable to understand the truth of these phenomena, they made up a story... with agency.

We want to have causes for things. We are uncomfortable with either random events or the unknown. Life should not be accidental or arbitrary. We are impatient and want answers. Don't give me an insipid, wishy-washy reason for things; or even no reason at all. Dammit, something caused it!

This is a natural tendency for us—built into our genes by our forebears' need to assign agency. It can help me to recognize that my jumpy response to that sound behind me in the dark is natural, but maybe I could also ponder the fact that I haven't seen a bear in years around here. But then again, maybe it's a cougar or the neighbor's pit bull! Better run!

More on agency next time...

Life's Rerun

I believe that it's pretty common for people to begin a nostalgic sentence with, “If I had my life to live over...” A similar sentiment may be uttered as, “If I knew then what I know now...” We all could finish these declarations in our own particular manner, implying that, given the (impossible) opportunity to rerun my life, I'd do a much better job the next time around. We know that it's a ludicrous scenario, but we still dream, don't we?

What's going on when we have these thoughts come to mind that, given another rerun, we'd carve out a better life? Am I dissatisfied with the one I've got? Do I regret my choices? Am I jealous of the good life I see and envy in others and just know that I could do better than they, if I could only find the magic lamp and release the genie within? Hey, I'm really a better person than the other guy; I know I could really impress you, if only I had taken that other job, or married that other gal. I'd be someone special now.

These thoughts imply our having regrets about who we are and our circumstances in life, with the implication that we could do a better job, if we were granted a rerun. But is this true? First, let me put a little thought into the life I have and ponder all the good things I'm grateful for. Second, let me put some thought into the fact that I did make many good (and/or lucky) choices, and be thankful I was in a position to be able to do so. Third, let me recognize that many of these decisions (good or bad) weren't really within my purview. External circumstances were often controlling the situation, and a magical increase in wisdom on my part would unlikely have made a difference.

Then let me ponder the strong possibility that I was close to death many times, but managed to luckily squeak through. Give me a chance to relive my life and maybe I'd run my car into a ditch, rather than happily pull it out, a second time around. If so, I'd have expired, given a second chance! Maybe grace saved me then. Maybe grace would look the other way the next time around.

Why do we have these thoughts about rerunning our life? Why are we not content with what we have? Why do we want more? Why are we not more thankful for what we have? I believe it's simply human nature to do so... or maybe human laziness. With a little more effort we could put more focus on counting our blessings, rather than regret what we might have missed.

Finally, I believe that many of the regrets we have about our life are not necessarily due to dumb choices in the past, but the ongoing dumb choices we keep making. It's not the past that's the problem—it's today! Improving the past is an impossible dream. Improving the future depends heavily on what I do right now. Let me break from my daydreaming, with all its wishful thinking, and pay attention. Oops! I almost goofed up there, but I saw it coming instead and danced around that mistake.

Little Drop

A little drop of water caught in leaf buds. Click to enlarge.

Tentative Truths

We humans have a need to know the truth. Indeed, all animals do. The principle reason for all Earth's creatures to seek the truth is simply to survive. The closer a critter's perception of the truth—the more accurate its view of reality—the better its chances of living until tomorrow. That's a universal drive of all life forms. But we humans—with our high-level cognition—take it a step or two further. We not only want the truth, but we recognize that there are layers of truth. Is this thing really true? Is my truth better than yours? On such questions the foundations of philosophy rest.

Science has its own view of truth: that it is something we never fully possess; that it is elusive; and that tomorrow's truth will negate today's. Those who lean toward the established religions tend to differ; many of them consider the Truth (capital T) to have been revealed long ago and is recorded in scripture.

I had an interesting experience about truth recently. It showed me that my ingrained assumptions about what is truthful may not always be valid; or at least that they are incomplete and/or biased and can use some periodic revision. I had paused briefly (to pee, to be truthful) by the little creek that runs by the clearing and found myself idly gazing at a scrubby brush growing at the water's edge. What an unsightly little bush! Maybe I should go and get the hand saw and cut it down, so it doesn't block my view of the picturesque stream.

Because I had a moment or two to be with my thought (about as long as it takes to empty my bladder), I began to question my assumptions about the plant's unappealing appearance. Is it really ugly? Can I choose not to see it's drabness? Isn't ugly in the eye of the beholder? Who am I to christen one plant as pretty and another as plain? What's the truth?

I have often pondered which plants to nurture and which to cull. In the first few years living out here I leaned toward importing so-called desirable (read: cultivated) trees and shrubs. I soon discovered, however, that most of them soon became undesirable—when they succumbed to diseases and various critter assaults, or required exceptional coddling. I soon came to appreciate many of Mother Nature's trees and shrubs—plants that may have looked unattractive in the woods, but when transplanted to the clearing where they had little competition for sunlight, became gorgeous. Besides, they had long ago adapted to the local environment and all its challenges and didn't require coddling.

So what is a weed? What's not a weed? To some extent, it's truly in the eye of the beholder. We decide. The dictionary tells me a weed is “a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants.” Well, that sure captures some of our prejudices! I decide where it's not wanted. I decide when it's in competition with a cultivated plant. I even decide what's cultivated and what's not. It makes me wonder: when I transplant a homely little sapling from the woods into the sunny clearing and prune it, does that make it a little bit cultivated?

We humans disrespect weeds, while Mother Nature has given them a critical task: quickly and vigorously to reclaim an area that's been wiped clear of vegetation, before the soil washes away; in the wake of forest fires, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and such other natural calamities. Weeds even rapidly reclaim human-caused disasters, such as warring fields.

Now, that said, if we are going to have a successful vegetable garden here on the homestead, we need to “weed” it. When we humans clear a patch of ground, fertilize it and keep it well-watered, weeds are going to out-compete our tender vegetables. Since most weeds taste bad or are toxic, we can't eat them. I'm afraid the result is that we kill and commit violence in the garden. It's us or them.

But where do we draw the line between a weed and a tomato? We have many natural plants growing around here. Some people would consider all of them weeds, but we've come to appreciate many of them for either their appearance or utility. “Jewel weed” has a pretty blossom, and juices in the plant can clear up poison ivy rashes. Pennyroyal is a tiny, homely plant whose dried leaves repel ants. Spring beauty is a wildflower (about as hardy as a “weed”) that has become one of my favorites. Autumn olive is a scrubby, invasive bush tree that grows even faster than most weeds, yet yields a good-tasting berry that possesses more lycopene than a tomato. Wild plum trees do poorly in the woods (crowded out by larger trees), but when transplanted to the clearing they become bonsai-like beauties that fill the spring air with intoxicating perfume.

I can create a lot of unnecessary work for myself if I get overzealous in my definition of a weed, which then forces me to expend much time and energy trying to eradicate or tame them. Why not put that effort into other things and let some of the weeds be? Can I find ways to encourage their natural beauty? They are finding ways to teach me to let go of some of my prejudices.

Moon from Appolo 17

Click to enlarge

Communication Casualties

I value good communication. It was a key factor in my scientific career a few decades ago. If I didn't communicate clearly with fellow researchers or our sponsors, I could soon find myself out of work. The results of my findings had to be passed on to others, or else my career ground to a halt.

I no longer do scientific research. My communication these days is mostly on a personal basis, with friends, family, and various organizations. I find that effective communication is often lacking in these exchanges. I find myself frequently wondering, for example, why I have received no response to a message I've sent.

A big part of my disconnect with others, I believe, is that I'm rather old fashioned. I'm just not “with the program.” A few decades ago I mostly communicated with others (when not using the telephone) via what now is dubbed as “snail mail.” I'd send a missive in the form of a card or letter. I had confidence that the postal service would deliver my mail. I knew that my recipient would then have something tangible in hand (a letter) that would be placed on their desk, to remind them over the ensuing days to respond. I did not expect a quick response; after all, this was snail mail! Most every time, I'd sooner or later get a reply, but in the meantime, I didn't hold my breath.

Then email entered the communication arena. We now compose a message, and at the speed of light it is delivered. If the recipient happens to be at the computer (or now, smart phone) when the missive arrives, I may get a reply within minutes. So much faster! We have come to expect speedy responses.

But there's a couple of major differences between snail mail and email, that dramatically changed the game. First, my recipient's email box may contain dozens, if not a few hundred messages, bedsides mine. Thus mine can easily get lost in the crowd—as it no longer sits conspicuously and singularly on their desk, demanding attention. Second, I cannot have as much confidence that my email message will arrive and be acknowledged, as I could in the old, snail-mail days. Email is simply not as reliable. Some emails vanish in the ether. Some get sent to my recipient's junk mail box—after having been selected by some algorithm as being rubbish, with no knowledge of this action on either of our parts. We are at the mercy of algorithms!

And now many people live in the world of text messages. They make email look slow. Texts must be brief, thus they can be composed in a few moments. Send a text and people expect a response within matter of a couple of minutes.

My snail mail experiences have become virtually obsolete. My preferred means of communication are vanishing. It feels more and more as if people no longer communicate very well at all—despite all the available social media. There is a mistaken assumption that speed and frequency promote communication, when in fact, like the juggler who has put too many balls in the air, a few are bound to be dropped. The quantity of messages does not imply quality.

Science Struggles—Part 2

There's a related struggle that is going on—primarily in academia—that illustrates another misunderstanding that the public has about science. It also stems from too many science educators teaching science as a simple sequential series of facts. I believe this is why so many students dislike and even dread the most basic science subject: physics.

I taught physics at the university level for a few years and was taken aback by the fact that many students were very anxious and were fretting over a subject that I loved. I soon realized that the physics text that the college had selected before I arrived was filled with intimidating equations and expected students to memorize those equations and their associated facts, with little emphasis on gaining any insight into their meaning. The second year of teaching I switched to a delightful physics text that stressed the concepts behind the equations, while minimizing their manipulation. I was delighted to see that many students now responded with far more receptivity to this most basic science. Class time now included lively discussions that had not been there before.

Without realizing it at the time, I was introducing a little of the philosophy of physics to my students. I have since become much more aware of the relevance of the philosophy of science—a subject that is even more misunderstood than science itself. Many people—particularly college students—are resistant to including a philosophical perspective to science. After all, isn't science a very tangible and concrete subject, while philosophy is fuzzy and mostly a matter of opinion?

It is a mistake to treat science mostly as a dry, objective study of the nature of things. Unfortunately, many scientists seem to encourage that kind of thinking, but it can lead to the perception that science has nothing to do with emotions, ethics, and moral choices. This may be partly why the public looks upon scientists as self-involved, introspective, and out of touch with the real world—and possibly even contributes to public distrust of science.

There is a lively field of study called the “philosophy of science,” that too many people—including a fair number of scientists—are either unaware of or distrust. But this field asks crucial questions that we all should be asking. It addresses questions that mere facts alone can't. It probes the understanding of science, rather than just its knowledge. It asks how we know these things, and are there some things we can't know? Is our understanding valid? Can our scientific knowledge guide us ethically or not? When we feel that we've improved our knowledge about a subject, how do we know that? How do we evaluate the improvement? What are the limitations of science? How do we discern true science from pseudoscience? These are important philosophical questions to be asking. If scientists were more open to them, it's possible that the disconnect between scientists and the public could be repaired some.

So there are many reasons why science is struggling in the eyes of the public. At a time when scientific discoveries are coming at a speedy pace and technology (the application of science) is rushing onward, this is not the time for poor communication between scientists and citizens; let alone mistrust and misunderstanding. The near future will be bringing many serious challenges to humanity. Those challenges need to be met by a robust science community working with a scientifically literary populace.

Ant on Pear Blossom

This ant was searching for sweet goodies on a pear bud about to bloom. Click to enlarge.

Science Struggles—Part 1

Having had a career in science a few decades ago, I continue to find that I am very interested in news about science and often read books on the subject. This field of discipline is critically important to humanity today, as it brings an increasing understanding of the world around us and our place in it. But science is struggling... particularly in the US. Americans are becoming progressively illiterate about science, and I find that worrisome.

Our educational system—both secondary schools and universities—do not do a very good job of either educating scientists or the general public. Our elected politicians and public policy makers do not understand science, and are even often hostile to it. The most egregious example of this is Washington's current war on the science of global warming. In addition, an anti-science bias frequently creeps into much of society's discourse on subjects such as vaccinations, space research, antibiotic use, energy use, nutrition, etc. It is sadly ironic, because the public enjoys and benefits from the developments of science, as people simultaneously denigrate it.

Tania Lombrozo recently wrote about this struggle in her science blog on National Public Radio. She makes the point that many researchers are working hard to increase the public's scientific literacy. In doing so, however, there is often confusion on their part over the difference between the public's knowledge of science and their understanding of it. Not only are many Americans uninformed about science—if not biased against it—but many who do try to acquaint themselves with the subject simply come to know a few facts, but really don't understand science.

What is the difference between knowledge and understanding? I may know that photosynthesis is the process of plants using sunlight to synthesize foods from carbon dioxide and water, but if I understand the process I can appreciate why plants are the source of oxygen and how they help to combat global warming. Thus I'll be more likely to advocate for halting the warming process, because plants can't keep up. I may know that NASA has sent several spacecraft to our solar system's planets, but if I understand a little of the science of the space program, I will be more supportive of these missions, not just for the cool pictures that they radio back, but for the gathering of crucial scientific information that will help scientists comprehend similar natural processes here on Earth; maybe even to better combat global warming.

Scientists know that they need to help the public to become more scientifically literate, but even they often fail to appreciate the important difference between scientific knowledge and understanding. Science educators know that they need to do a better job at countering the public's uninformed and biased opinions. Given the current struggles, there's a lot of work to do.

More on the struggle next time...

Froggies in a Tug of War

The green against the brown.

Present Perceptions

In a delightful book titled The Dharma of Dogs, Andrew Holocek writes about his relationship with his dog—giving several examples of how his dog, in sort of a human-dog turnabout, is often his teacher. Many people have described the special relationship they have with their dogs over the years. I have done so several times on this blog. Dogs have a unique way of seemingly mind-melding with humans. We two different mammalian species have been bosom buddies for tens of thousands of years.

Holocek describes how a dog's world is a “highly sensual one, and our senses only operate in the present. I can't smell the future or see the past. I can't taste the future or hear the past. My senses are forever nailed to the present moment.” I had never thought about my senses in this way—that they operate completely in the present moment. When I see something, it's caused by photons of light impinging upon my eyes... right now. Yesterday's photons are long gone. When I touch a fine piece of wood, the sensation it causes is right now. My sense of touch cannot lean into the future.

Given that a dog relies heavily on its senses—especially its sense of smell—it very much lives in the present. It is responding right now to the sounds and smells of its world. When we humans are in the company of our canine friend—say when our minds are lost in the past or are thrusting into the future—responding to our dog can bring us back to the present. I can't remember how many times I've been strolling through the woods with my dog—my mind fussing over yesterday's events—when his sudden dash into the underbrush yanks me back into the now. Am I out here in nature to fret over yesterday's lost opportunities, or to find rejuvenation in its beauty? Thanks, my puppy friend.

Buddhist teachings add a sixth sense to our commonly accepted five (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste): the mind. I've always liked this concept. All five “normal” senses send electrical signals to the brain, which then does a lot of processing on them, so as to interpret what those signals mean. The workings of the brain are what constitutes the mind. We need the mind to tell us what's going on around us; to interpret, process, and correlate those signals. An important part of that interpretation is also to bring memory (the past) into the process; as well as to ponder where all this may be heading (in the future).

The human mind is far more sophisticated than a dog's mind. That's what makes us so powerful. But there's a disadvantage to all this mental capability: we tend to spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the past and fretting over the future. It causes us to lose a lot of what's happening right now.

So a dog—whose mind is less developed or dominant—lives in a “highly sensual” world. It is far more likely to respond to the immediate sights, smells, and sounds of its environment than we are. And if we are in the company of our dog, it might just pull us back into the present moment—into a world that is, in many ways, more real than either yesterday or tomorrow. Thanks, my puppy friend.

Praying Mantis

I caught this female mantis looking at me with suspicion or maybe fear. Why? Because the second photo shows her full of eggs. She did not have to worry about me, as I welcome her babies and their preying on other insects that are pests. (Shouldn't they be called "preying" mantis, rather than "praying?") Click to enlarge.

Tool Mistreatment

Tools have been of tremendous benefit to humans. From the early use of stone tools (dating back millions of years... even before humans arrived on the scene) to the latest artificial intelligence (AI) machines, tools have enabled us to extend our senses and multiply our physical capabilities far beyond what nature gave us. Those first stone tools brought our ancestors powerful new ways to smash nuts to get at their interior, to cut up meat, to clean animal hides for clothing, and even to fashion other tools.

When those ancestors subsequently learned how to make metal tools, their capabilities dramatically expanded. The later invention of telescopes and microscopes extended our visual capacity out to the stars and into the interior of biological cells. The list is limitless. It extends all the way to today's computers that bring us almost unimaginably powerful capabilities—possibly the most impressive of which is AI.

Human culture would likely have remained on a par with chimpanzees, had we not been able to create this increasingly complex and powerful lineage of tools. A fascinating question that is often posed is how our big brain and our fantastic tools are causally connected. Can we attribute the evolution of our wonderful tools to our capacious cranium, or did our increasingly sophisticated tools demand a bigger brain to use them? It's sort of a chicken-and-egg conundrum. Whatever the answer, modern humans certainly depend on and benefit from our many kinds of tools.

Tools are a form of technology. The definition of a tool is traditionally considered to be a hand-held device, used for a specific type of occupation. In contrast, our modern tools are usually thought of as a form of technology—a word that generally describes machinery or equipment developed from or for scientific purposes. With these definitions, we can see that those primitive hand-held tools gradually morphed into various forms of technology. (Interestingly, the root of the word technology is the Greek word tekhnologle, which means “the systematic creation from art and/or craft.” This craft process seems to me to be exactly how the early stone tools came about.)

Unfortunately, tools and technology have also had a dark side—from the first stone hammer to the latest AI machine. Tools seem to have invited mistreatment from their very beginnings. The same rock that was used to crack a nut also soon got used to crack a human skull. Sharp flaked stone tools that allowed our ancestors to cut up a gazelle also got used as a weapon to cut up other humans. Those primitive metal knives cut meat better than stone, but soon saw use in warfare. And so it went, throughout our evolution.

A current mistreatment of a high-tech tool that billions of people have enjoyed using—Facebook—is causing all kinds of trouble for many people. Facebook is valued for its ability to keep people in instant and handy touch with each other, but there's a dark side to its use that is emerging. Commercial interests use big data algorithms to determine intimate behaviors of Facebook users and then entice them to buy billions of dollars worth of stuff they otherwise would not have bought—without those targeted ads.

Multinational actors use the same intimate data to manipulate people's behaviors through the use of fake news and other biased misinformation. Facebook, Google, Amazon, and other online businesses all exploit the power of AI—ostensibly to offer us convenience, but also to amass huge amounts of money by swaying our choices. And of course, many technologists today worry about the future dangers of AI robots—which some fear will either eliminate many current forms of employment or even enslave their creators, us humans.

I am not equipped to explain why it is that Homo sapiens is such a brilliant creator of so many wonderful tools that make our lives so pleasant, but then also get used as one form of weapon or another—weapons which make so many lives miserable, or even terminate them. Philosophers and pious people have pondered and debated that issue for millennia. They have offered many diverse explanations—and most of those explanations clash with each other.

Whatever the cause of human behavior that leads us to mistreat our tools, there certainly are countless examples of how we've perpetually done it. One factor is that we seem to be suckers for the latest technology. Show me a new, convenient and efficacious tool, and I'll want one. Tell me about an attractive technology that's about to be offered, I'll want one. Our initial intentions are rarely wicked; we simply focus on the advantages, and thus we enthusiastically pursue the new tool.

But sooner—rather than later—it seems that someone will find a way to mistreat the new tool; even if they don't deliberately do so. Is it greed? Laziness? Merciless competition? Seeking power over others? Or is it largely due to the fact that we just move too fast, and can't seem to pause and exercise a little precaution? I suppose it's all of these and more.

Yes, tool mistreatment is an ancient bad habit of humans. It's caused untold suffering. And it doesn't appear that we are in the process of reining ourselves in. The scary part is the fact that our tools have become so powerful that their misuse can do damage beyond our control.

Computer Bug

While typing one night, this guy crawled across my computer. I have no idea what it is. It was less than one-quarter inch (about half a centimeter) long. The top photo shows his eye better and the bottom photo shows his body better. Click to enlarge.

Coping With Copperheads—Part 2

So, might we find a way to allow and encourage snakes to assume the duties we once assigned to cats? If we had no cat, I believe resident snakes would be thankful, because cats perceive snakes to be an enemy. I've watched our cats harass a snake and even kill baby snakes. This animosity makes some sense, given that cats and snakes prey upon many of the same critters. They are in competition and the natural instinct is to eliminate your rival.

Most of our snakes are harmless to humans. We have black racers, milk snakes, ring snakes, garter snakes, etc. But there is one species that puts fear into the hearts of humans in these parts: the copperhead. It's poisonous. It's venom is potent. Most of our neighbors who've lived here all their lives regard copperheads as “nasty,” and will quickly kill one with no remorse at all. I have seen a few of them around here over the years, and have quickly retreated, when I spot one. They can be aggressive and appear very threatening. They know that they possess a potent weapon.

So, if we choose to forgo getting another cat, while hoping that snakes will do the job we need done, what do we do about those copperheads? Is it ethical to encourage the presence of black snakes, while attempting to eradicate a copperhead? Can we learn to cope with copperheads?

In an attempt to answer some of these questions, I once again turned to the vast resources of the internet. The copperhead's scientific name is Agkistrodon contortrix. It is a pit viper (like its more formidable cousin the rattlesnake), which means that it has two heat-sensing pits located between its eyes and its nostrils. I love its alternative names: chunkhead, dry-land moccasin, highland moccasin, pilot snake, red snake, and death adder. (Yikes to that last one!) They inhabit rock outcroppings, wood piles, and compost piles. That last place is where I consistently see one. When I go to turn the compost piles and throw back the tarp covering them, I very often bring to the light of day a copperhead sitting imperiously atop the pile, disturbed that I have blown its cover, and daring me to advance. I then proceed to delicately shoo it away, to let me continue my work.

Copperheads are one of the few snake species that give birth (in late summer) to live babies, rather than deposit eggs that later hatch. The mother incubates the eggs inside her body and then releases up to 14 squiggly babies—each one some 8-10 inches (20-25 cm) long. They are mostly nocturnal—preferring to lay around during the day and hunt at night. That helps to make encounters rare, as we humans tend to be active in the day and lay around at night.

Unlike rattlesnakes, copperhead bites are typically not fatal. In fact, the bigger problem, if you get bit, is that their venom can cause local tissue destruction, where secondary infection can set in. The greatest number of snake bites in the US is from copperheads. That said, one of these snakes would prefer to escape, when it encounters a human. It is only when they feel cornered that they will strike out. So there's no need for me to regard a copperhead as a perennial enemy—only if I blunder upon one, unmindfully. And mindfulness is an attribute that I have learned goes a long way toward making one's life in the woods safer and more enjoyable.

So, if copperhead snakes behave themselves—or, rather, if we stay mindful and don't stumble heedlessly into their habitat—and we can encourage other harmless snakes to proliferate, will our serpent friends fulfill the function of our past cats? The serpents come at no financial cost, are natural inhabitants around here, and already may be in balance with other critters. Time will tell. We will hold off on acquiring another cat and see how this experiment plays out. Maybe I could even learn to welcome a snake cuddling up on my lap.

Copperhead Snake

Two views of the copperhead on the compost pile. Click to enlarge.

Coping With Copperheads—Part 1

In a previous blog (“Failing Feline,” posted on 8 August) I reported that our aging cat died recently. As he was slowly wasting away, we discussed how and when to find another feline to replace him. For all of our more than three decades of life here in the woods we've had a cat, for a couple of reasons: First, I like a cat that curls up on my lap, forming itself into a warm, fuzzy ball, especially on cold winter nights. Second, a cat can be a useful control on rabbits and rodents. Our garden has been partially protected by resident cats over the years.

But to be honest, cats also have a couple of disadvantages for us. The biggest problem is their propensity to kill songbirds. We've done our best to discourage their predatory action against our feathered friends (primarily by keeping our cat indoors during the day), but we still lose half a dozen birds each year. Another problem is expense. Veterinary bills can get very pricey these days—especially if you spay or neuter the cat, or if you have the bad luck of acquiring one whose genes promote various diseases.

Then there's the issue of acclimating and training a new cat to be a good citizen in the household. That's another factor that we have little control over, when we acquire a cat. Will it be a good mouser? Will it ignore mice and go after birds? Will it care at all to curl up in my lap? Cats for us are not mere cute pets. They have a job to do—just as any member of the family does. To what extent would a new cat fulfill its duties?

As I pondered the question, I began to wonder if we really needed a cat. What if a new cat scorned all these duties? There goes a primary reason for having one. We might incur several cat-related expenses for nothing.

So, is there an alternative? It occurred to me, as I thought about it, that snakes provide many of the same services that a cat does. Snakes prey on rodents and large insects like caterpillars, as well as birds. Oh oh to that last one! Overall, it seems that snakes can offer many of the same benefits that cats do; and they come with no vet bills or commercial food to buy. Furthermore, they are a natural resident of the area. In that sense cats (as well as we humans) are an invasive species!

Hmmm... could snakes do the job (for free) that cats have done for us in the past? During our first few years here, I possessed the typical human animosity towards snakes. We humans have a deep evolutionary repulsion of snakes. The book of Genesis biases many us, by blaming the snake for our eviction from the Garden of Eden. That predilection is most likely inherited from even more distant ancestors of ours.

Furthermore, it's hard not to flinch when we humans spot a snake. They seem to be the essence of a threat. They slither. It almost makes one's skin crawl to observe that sneaky slink. And only the most foolish or brave person would dare to touch a snake! In short, an undulating serpent appears revolting.

Or so I thought, for many years. Gradually, however, I've come to accept—and even appreciate—snakes. I've never had one attempt to lure me into evil, by talking me into biting into an apple. I've never had one bite me—let alone even really threaten me. Over the years I've learned to understand where a snake might be residing, and thus not to blunder into its territory. (In a similar vein I've learned the habits of stinging wasps and bees, and how to avoid invading their space.) In many ways, life out here has been a series of lessons of how to share space with creatures that I once deemed pests and could only imagine them as foes. I may not have yet come to see them as cuddly buddies, but I can appreciate how they fulfill a role in this small ecosystem.

More on snakes next time...

Woodpecker Work

Here are some examples of some serious woodpecker work, making nests in a pine tree. Click to enlarge.

Tumble Those Trees?

I have a neighbor who decided to take action against some of his trees years ago—an action that I could never bring myself to do. I'm sure he disapproves of my not following suit. His action? Cutting down a dozen or more mature trees that surrounded his house. In contrast, I love the dozen or so trees that surround and lean over my house; I'd never cut them down!

Why the difference? Don does not dislike trees; his motivation was to avoid ever having them blow down and damage his home. He lives in the woods as I do, and enjoys his trees. He just doesn't want to risk one toppling onto his roof. Don is also a guy who likes a tidy yard. Each fall he assiduously sucks up dead leaves with a big machine and deposits them off in the woods. He definitely doesn't like dead leaves carpeting his lawn. By cutting down his trees, he has no falling trees or their leaves to deal with.

So by leaving my trees to stand tall, I am taking an unacceptable risk in Don's eyes. I like the pleasure that trees bring me: their beauty and their shade. I have written on this blog before about sitting in the outdoor tub, looking up and revering the trees, while fully aware that if one takes a notion to fall on me, I'm dead.

This contrasting approach to handling trees reminds me of the teachings of many past and present philosophers, who pondered the propensity of humans (and all critters, for that matter) to maximize pleasure and avoid pain. We constantly make choices that are aimed at enjoying things, while evading suffering. Don doesn't get immense pleasure from his trees, and he is certainly determined to avoid the pain of the expense of roof repairs. His choice is to clear out the trees. I take great pleasure in my trees, and recognize the pain that they could cause me, but choose to take the risk.

One of the crucial factors going on here is one's assessment of the probability of risk. Both Don and I enjoy and get pleasure from trees. But while he is not willing to chance a fallen tree, I am. I regard the probability of a falling tree as low enough that I need not worry about it. So it's a case of how we read the probabilities and how we weigh that against our pleasure/pain. We each make our personal decision.

As I pondered this contrast between Don and me, it occurred to me that a central reason why insurance companies exist is to allow us to take pleasure in those things we enjoy, while the companies step in to decrease the pain we get when bad things happen. We willingly pay a small amount of money each month to an insurance account, to build up a sort of savings. When disaster strikes we are covered. It's a way to game the system: keep enjoying our pleasures, while we don't have to fret the possible pain. Insurance companies are accomplished at computing the probabilities of catastrophes, as they average the costs over many participants.

The function of insurance works to benefit those who can afford to pay for it. A small payment each month is lost in the noise. A downside of this situation is that it allows advantaged people to take otherwise unreasonable risks (for example, building their house on a hillside that is prone to mudslides) and still be covered for losses. Disadvantaged people, however, (who can't afford insurance) lose everything when disaster strikes. It's just another unfortunate example of the differences between the “haves” and the “have-nots.”

Zinnia with Butterfly

Click to enlarge.

Discomforting Curiosity

I have always delighted in the feeling of curiosity. I've written about the value of curiosity several times on this blog. I've described my sense of inquisitiveness about numerous things in my immediate environment, as well as in the wider world. The dictionary's definition of curiosity is “a strong desire to know or learn something.” The word's root is the Latin word curiosus, which means “careful.” I find it fascinating that our modern usage of the word curiosity stems from being careful. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds appropriate.

I live in the woods. I live a simple life that provides ample time for exploring the natural world around me. My scientific training predisposes me to seek explanations for things I observe in my world. Countless times I have paused to look at my environment and wondered what is really going on. How did nature arrive at the thing I'm seeing? What led to it? Why does this animal behave as it does? I find this behavior to be mysterious. How can I learn what causes it? The internet is an invaluable resource to answer many of these questions, but I also know that if I take the time to watch and be open, an understanding may come.

I have always greeted these questions with an enthusiastic feeling of interest and wonder. I wonder why that bird does that. I wonder about the meaning of life. I wonder what's going on around all those stars out there. I wonder about the cognitive differences between humans and other animals. So much wonder!

A recent scientific blog on National Public Radio by Tania Lombrozo addressed this issue of curiosity—asking, curiously, whether the feeling is a negative or a positive one. Some people, she writes, experience curiosity as a negative emotion, while others respond positively. I was very intrigued by her blog, because I've never felt negatively about curiosity.

She cited recent research that looked into why this contrasting response occurs. It turns out that those who feel positive about their curiosity tend look upon the situation with anticipation; they look forward to learning something new. Those who feel negative, however, often feel frustrated about the situation; they are unsatisfied about being in the dark.

Lombrozo points out that curiosity arises when we notice a gap in our knowledge. We want to close that gap. We want to know. So curiosity is all about learning... coming to know.

So why do some people feel negative about their curiosity, while others look forward to the pleasure of finding out why? The research shows that the main factor that divides the two camps is a function of the time it will take to satisfy one's curiosity. Those who don't like to wait will focus on their not knowing; they will focus on that gap, and they don't like it. Those who don't mind the wait focus on the anticipation of learning something new, and thus are more positive and eager.

It seems to me that a major factor dividing these two groups is that some people want to know, while others seek to learn. Those seeking to know are motivated by finding an answer and thus concluding the inquiry. They're mostly interested in answers. Those who want to learn, however, see the process of understanding as an open-ended, unfinished process. Once they close the gap and learn something, they eagerly greet the additional gaps that pop up, to continue on the endless learning curve. The inquiry for them is never concluded. There's always more to learn. I find that comforting. In contrast, some people—those who want definitive answers—seem to be uncomfortable with the gap.

Caged Opossum

The blog entry below describes how this opossum got caught. Notice those teeth and that snake-like tail. Click to enlarge.

Playing 'Possum

We recently had some kind of critter invade the garden in the night and gnaw off tomato seedlings and other vulnerable young vegetables. We struggled with protecting the delicate plants, as we tried to figure out who was the culprit. We at first suspected rabbits, but after several failed attempts at intercepting and identifying the perpetrator, we bought a live trap. The very next morning I entered the garden to greet a very unhappy opposum staring at me from his cage. I drove him up the road a few miles and released him into the woods.

That incident led me to do some investigation into the Virginia opossum, hoping that I could figure a way of discouraging these critters from invading the garden in the future. We have been growing vegetables for over three decades now and this is the first time opossums have raided us. We've dealt with voles, rabbits, countless insects, and deer, but the opossum was a new threat.

The local opossum (Didelphis virginiana) is North America's sole marsupial—which is a type of mammal that lacks a placenta. Like kangaroos, the opossum gives birth to tiny fetal-like creatures, who scramble into mom's pouch, where they spend their first few months of life. The opossum looks like a rat with a very long, pointed head. It's about the size of a domestic cat, but its brain is only one-third of the size of a cat's brain. (Now, that's really dumb! I've written on this blog a few times about how the cognitive capability of the household cat is quite inferior to a dog.)

The opossum is a nocturnal creature, rambling around in the night for its food. Its nose is extremely sensitive, which compensates for its poor eyesight. It is truly an omnivore, as it will dine on grains, snakes, mice, chipmunks, human garbage, insects (ants, ticks, flies, spiders, etc.), as well as tender vegetables. That last item spurred this blog.

Most Americans are familiar with the term “playing 'possum,” which refers to the animal's habit of suddenly falling down and playing “dead” when it's threatened. It does a remarkable job of looking dead. Its eyes are open, its tongue flops out, its heart rate halves, its breathing rate drops by a third, and it oozes a foul-smelling liquid from glands near its anus that reeks of death. It can lie lifeless for up to six hours.

The opossum is a hairy critter (rat-looking, as I said) with a hairless tail that looks eerily like a snake. It has more teeth than any other similar mammal. What's especially unique is that it has an opposable thumb on all four feet; making them look uncannily like human hands. It's a very bizarre little critter!

Another fascinating fact about the opossum is how it came to North America. Millions of years ago North America was inhabited only by placental mammals, while South America's mammals were predominantly marsupial. About three million years ago the Isthmus of Panama arose as sea levels dropped, connecting the two continents. Some marsupials migrated north; some placental northern mammals headed south, through Panama.

Thereafter, similarly-behaving species (one kind marsupial, the other mammal) came into competition, and when they did, the placentals almost always had the advantage. As a result, many marsupials in South America went extinct, giving way there to their placental competitors. In North America, all marsupials went extinct, except for the intrepid opossum. Maybe its ability to play dead so effectively helped it to persevere?

I find it fascinating that we humans evolved from placental mammals—primates—who resemble the opossum. It makes me wonder what if the marsupials had been more fit than placental mammals, and they had won the evolutionary competition? Would the world's most intelligent critter today be a marsupial with opposable thumbs? It's a reminder that, if we could roll back the clock a few million years and replay evolution, today's mix of species would be very different. The fact that humans came out (so far, anyway) as the dominant species was not preordained.

Highland Cows

A friend in Scotland sent me these photos of highland cow calves. Could anything be cuter? Click to enlarge.

Untiring Attention

Many years ago I discovered the French naturalist Henri Fabre, who, in the latter half of the 19^th century painstakingly and relentlessly studied insects and wrote about them. Charles Darwin paid tribute to Fabre and his many contributions to the science of entomology. Fabre spent countless hours on his knees studying many kinds of bugs and recording his observations. Those observations are often delightful to read.

There are two contrasting types of scientists who devote their lives to the natural world. The first type is usually formally educated, takes a position on the staff of an institution of higher education, and writes academic papers in his chosen field. The second type is often not formally educated, may have no academic employment, and devotes most of his time to field observation.

Of the first type, we have as examples such eminent individuals as Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and E.O. Wilson. Three examples of the second type are John Muir, Charles Darwin, and Fabre. The third individual in each case focused their work on insects.

Both Wilson and Fabre are people for whom I have enormous admiration, and have learned much from each of their studies and writings. I think what especially elicits my appreciation for the kind of naturalist that Fabre was, is the deep devotion and untiring attention he put to his work. In fact, what he accomplished should not really be described as work, but as passion. What drove him on (as well as Darwin and Muir) was not the desire to hold an esteemed academic position, or publish papers, but simply the urge to discover nature's ways. They were not driven to publish, but to watch.

I do not wish in any way to disparage the college professor who spends the majority of her time on campus, teaching, or writing papers. Science has benefited greatly from the work of academics. College professors often collaborate with fellow academics and form teams that tackle problems that individuals can't. College professors also have access to expensive resources—such as supercomputers and complex experimental machinery—that individuals don't. So they make invaluable contributions to knowledge.

An individual investigator like Fabre, Muir, and Darwin has his own advantage: freedom from academic dogma and institutional thinking. They can follow their own intuition. They are often obsessive people who are untiring in their attention—with a singular devotion to pursue their zeal to their heart's content. Darwin's extraordinary insights into evolution came after decades of dogged pursuit. Muir's advocacy for the need to protect nature's beautiful places followed decades of courageous and dangerous travels through the wilderness. Fabre's delightful discoveries came after decades of squinting at tiny bugs and getting sore knees.

I value both kinds of scientist—the academic and the field naturalist. Indeed, some scientists are both kinds. Maybe I lean a little bit toward the loners like Fabre because, living as a hermit, I treasure solitude. Besides, curious people like him inspire my own investigations in my own corner of the wilderness.

Alien Intelligence

The search is fully on for signs of intelligent life on planets other than Earth. Humans have long pondered whether or not life arose elsewhere—and in particular, if it could be intelligent life. Up until the last couple of decades, this conjecture was little more than idle speculation. But now we have telescopes that have discovered thousands of planets circling nearby stars—some of those planets might harbor life. Additionally, our definition of the extreme conditions under which life can survive has greatly expanded, so we can now expect to see life surviving under fierce conditions that we once thought were impossible. More and more, it seems that the discovery of extraterrestrial life is more a matter of “when,” not “if.”

Very recently there's been yet another finding in this arena—right here on Earth—of a new type of intelligence that was under our noses, but was never before recognized. This finding is very similar to recent discoveries of terrestrial lifeforms—dubbed “extremophiles”—that thrive in conditions we once considered to be too hostile to allow life. The new discovery is a species of ocean critters called ctenophores (pronounced ten-o-fors) that are intelligent creatures who evolved their brains and nervous systems in a very different manner from the rest of Earth's species. They are some kind of alien.

From the earliest understood forms of Earth life, all the way up to us humans, the progression of nervous systems from primitive cells to the human brain have followed what we came to believe was a singular path. All life's nervous systems (so we have believed) genetically evolved to employ common neural messengers, such as serotonin, dopamine, and nitric oxide. This mechanism is the same, from nematodes to ants to humans. We've all evolved our nervous systems in the same fashion.

A Russian scientist (Leonid Moroz) who emigrated from his native land to the US two decades ago, insisted upon looking more deeply into the qualities of ctenophores. These critters had been identified and cataloged for a long time—and were considered to be a close cousin of jellyfish. When Moroz captured a few of these critters and began examining them, however, he found that, although they had evolved muscles and a nervous system like other creatures, they took an entirely different route from all other life forms.

Ctenophores are a very ancient life-form. They display an example of what is called convergence: life evolving into similar-looking critters, but doing so by following a different evolutionary path. For example, eyes have independently evolved many times, following parallel but quite different evolutionary paths. Porpoises and sharks are very similar creatures, but evolved through completely different paths. One is a mammal, the other is a fish. In the case of the porpoise and shark, we find very different critters which arrived at the same solution, because—although they started at different beginning points—they each had to solve the same problems: swimming.

What is fascinating about ctenophores is that, had their singular evolutionary route been favored by nature, life-forms on Earth today would be very different. Life would likely have eventually still evolved nervous systems and sophisticated brains, but they'd be housed in quite different kinds of animals. There would be no humans, as we know them.

This discovery has relevance to our search for extraterrestrial life. Just as the existence of extremophiles has caused us to open our minds to other kinds of life elsewhere, ctenophores seem to be advising us to open our minds even more, to understanding that intelligence may have evolved in alien ways that we have yet to understand, and to be on the lookout for some strange possibilities. We can learn from aliens right here on Earth.

Orange Caterpillar

I found this caterpillar a few days ago. It's about 2 inches (5 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Altruistic Exchange

Social psychologists describe a very nice quality that we humans possess—something that is planted deep in our psyche; something that has been bred into us by evolution: a natural inclination to reciprocate kind behavior when it is shown to us. If someone does something nice to us, we feel an urge to return the favor.

However, there's another, negative side of the coin: when someone mistreats us we often have an equally natural inclination to reciprocate with like mistreatment. Revenge is a deep instinct of ours. Indeed, much of human history is replete with violence, as humans often strike back, in retaliation. Although that is an important topic on its own, I will focus here on the positive side of the coin: our returning favor for favor.

It makes sense that we feel a yearning to return kindness with kindness, when we consider it from an evolutionary perspective. When our deep ancestors reciprocated the altruistic behaviors of community members, it pulled the community together. The clan became stronger and more cooperative. It strengthened the group, so that they survived better than clans who didn't cooperate. The noncooperative group went extinct, while the altruistic group thrived.

So altruistic exchange strengthens our connections to one another. And thanks to evolution, it's literally in our genes. We are thankful for it and enjoy its benefits. That said, there's a bit of a problematic side to friendly reciprocity: it opens us up to being scammed. Salespeople have known this and have cleverly used it for ages. If, as a salesman, you offer someone a token favor, you've earned a little leverage to get them to cooperate with you. Thus, the reciprocity tendency can be used to manipulate people and sell them stuff they'd otherwise not want.

Salespeople are often extremely solicitous before they sell you their product. They are your best friend; they have all the time in the world to be with you; and they're apt to gift you with little mementos. Once you respond and buy, however, attempts to reach the formerly friendly salesperson—if you have a question or a complaint—very often go unanswered.

As another example, we may get “free” offers from salespeople to enjoy a gratuitous meal, in exchange for the “opportunity” to purchase a time-share condominium in some idyllic location. Watch out! After the free meal, you will be forced to endure a coercive session, where you will be expected to return the favor of a meal by buying your very own condo.

But to return to my starting point: we are genetically programmed to reciprocate, when someone does us a favor. It's nice to be able to respond in kind. There are, however, times when we can't return the kindness to the individual who benefited us. What do we do then? How do we deal with the propensity to respond kindly, when we can't? Many people say that the right thing to do is to pass it on to others. That's an honorable thing to do. The “Pay it Forward” movement arose years ago to do just that. The reciprocity of kindness to others can spread around, to the benefit of everyone.

So which side of the coin predominates in society—returning kindness or revenge? That's an argument that I don't wish to wade into here. I'd just like to recognize and celebrate the fact that altruistic exchanges are inherent in us and that we all can benefit from this natural positive urge.

Dung Beetle

I found this guy in a bucket of water by the outdoor tub. He was a along way from his favorite plaything: a round ball of poop to roll home. He did pause long enough for me to get a photo. He's almost an inch (2 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Eclipse Impressions

Recently I traveled more than halfway across the American continent to view the “Great American Eclipse” of 2017. I chose to travel from Virginia to the state of Wyoming, because it had an excellent chance of experiencing clear skies during the event. We also have friends out there who set us up with a superb viewing location.

For several months prior to the eclipse I did lots of research, in order to better appreciate the event. This Great American Eclipse promised a unique experience. The eclipse path would travel diagonally across the country, right through its middle. I bought the requisite solar eclipse viewing glasses—which allow you to stare directly at the sun, without frying your eyeballs. I also bought a filter of the same material, to place over the lens of my camera to allow photos. I was ready!

I was aware of the fact that viewing a solar eclipse requires one to be gazing at the sun for about three hours, as the Moon first begins to block the sun, until it again exits the scene, leaving behind a full sun again. Those three hours sandwich less than three minutes of totality—when the Moon fully covers the sun. So you patiently wait for well over an hour for totality to finally occur, and then experience a darkened sky for only a couple of minutes. It all happens just too quickly.

So I prepared well. I was ready with camera, with charts describing the event's timing, and with past eclipse stories in mind—all very objective kinds of preparations. What I was not prepared for was the emotional experience. I knew from my research that to witness a total solar eclipse was a very subjective and moving experience. All Earth's creatures expect to continually sense the sun's rays all day long, and then to experience several hours of nighttime, until the sun reappears in the morning. It's a pattern we come to presume is always there. But if the sun is suddenly turned off for a couple of minutes in the middle of the day, we become disoriented. We emotionally respond.

It is hard to describe the feelings that came over me at totality. I wish, like Joshua, I could have stopped the sun in its tracks for a couple of hours, in order to have more fully soaked up the emotions. It's over far too quickly. All you have time for is to be amazed and dazzled by the sight in that brief time frame. It's truly the experience of a lifetime.

One interesting reaction that endures for me, a few weeks later, is that the Moon I saw eclipsing the sun that day was an alien moon. I am quite a Moon freak. For most of my life I've been fascinated by the Moon. I gaze at it at length. I follow its phases through the month. I've photographed it many times. I've come to have an intimate relationship with it. I have written about it several times in this blog.

But the eclipsing Moon I saw on 21 August 2017 was not my Moon. It did not have the varied features and contrasting topography that my Moon does. It was not gray or orange. It did not shine brilliantly like on a dark night—when it illuminates my pathway through the woods. The eclipsing Moon was a black circle that slowly obliterated the sun. It seemed to be a two-dimensional disk—a flat circle without features. It did its job and then it was gone! The renewed brilliant sun banished it from the sky. Fortunately, a few nights later I once again spotted my old, familiar Moon—now a thin, bright crescent that I knew would soon wax into a round, brilliant, orange-gray ball, that would dominate the night sky, in a few more nights. My Moon will be back!

NASA Eclipse Photos

These two eclipse photos from 21 August were taken from NASA's Solar Dynamics Observatory, a satellite, launched seven years ago, that looks directly at the sun all the time. Click to enlarge.

Whippoorwill Wrangle

As I sat in the outdoor tub recently, I heard two whippoorwills who seemed to be vying with each other—at least that's how it sounded to me. Conversations and competitions between animals can get quite complex. We humans—with our complex languages and our big brains—tend to belittle the forms of communication we hear going on in the animal world. Caught within the narrow confines of our own kind of information transfer, we are apt to look upon animal communication as primitive and simplistic. We miss the subtle details of how they talk to each other.

So I sat there in the tub, tuning into the dialog that these two birds seemed to be having with each other. The whippoorwill's call is an onomatopoeic one—meaning that their song is essentially identical to their name. These birds sing out—not with the usual “tweet tweet”—but with a robust “WHIP-poor-WILL.” The first two syllables seem to be emitted on the inhale of breath, with the last strong syllable exhaled with gusto. Because the bird calls out on both inhale and exhale, he can go on and on, uninterrupted. And sometimes whippoorwills do—much to my chagrin. They can repeatedly call out through the night, drilling their calls deeply into one's ear and brain.

The two birds I was listening to this night would each sequentially sing out a dozen or so phrases and then fall silent, as if waiting and listening to the other bird, to see what the response was. They called back and forth several times, before they both paused for a while, as the forest silence once again returned. In a few minutes their call-and-response routine would begin afresh—with now one of them having shifted to a new location in the forest.

There obviously was some kind of communication going on. I became absorbed in their game—trying to fathom what the rules were. It was rather like traveling to a foreign country, where I was ignorant of both the language and customs, and was observing a dialog between people and trying to guess what they were talking about.

Was I listening to a whippoorwill contest? If so, were they contesting territory? This late in the season, they were unlikely to be seeking mates—the broods of all of our local birds had already been fledged, so there was no need to vie for a mate. Well, maybe they weren't competing for territory; maybe it was simply to see which one had the more appealing and accomplished call. Or maybe they were discussing some aspect of forest life... such as the lack of mosquitoes to eat tonight.

So, if it was a territorial contest, I wondered which bird might be the challenger and which one the defender. One bird's pitch was a little lower than the other's. Does pitch convey information? Does the more aggressive bird sing at a lower pitch? I also tried to guess which bird's call seemed to be more eloquent than the other. Would the challenger or the defender sound more impressive and resolute? I know that birds often try to bluff each other, and maybe a kind of deceit was going on.

When, after a pause, one changed position, I tried to guess if he was yielding and backing off, or maybe losing interest in the game and simply moving on. On the other hand, birds will sometimes alter the quality of their call—in order to signal that they are possibly acquiescing, when actually they seek to deceive the other into believing they are closer and more intimidating that they really are. It's part of the game.

As in most cases when I am treated to the calls and exhibitions of our wildlife, I am left wondering—with more questions than answers. Their sophisticated communication is yet beyond my comprehension. I've reposed in the tub for a couple of decades now, eavesdropping on their conversations. Bit by bit, I sometimes begin to understand what they are up to. Maybe in another half century—when I am a hundredtwentysomething—I may get it.