Cozy Cats, Dutiful Dogs

I have written a couple of times in this blog about the contrasting qualities of cats and dogs, and the joys and tribulations of living with each type of critter. For several decades I have had both of them as household companions, and enjoy each of them for their unique habits and charms. I have poked fun at my sister and a dear cousin—both of whom are dedicated cat loyalists—while (I think) not fully appreciating the qualities of canines. So I've found it necessary to correct their bias a couple of times.

One more fascinating piece of evidence that feeds cat/dog comparisons was recently uncovered in an English science lab, as researchers were examining the genome of the domestic cat. What they may have discovered is the likely process by which cats were domesticated, some 10,000 years ago in the Near East. It seems as though some people back then discovered that a few less-wild wild cats could be coaxed into being stroked—that some of them grooved on being petted and then being offered a treat. Over time, people were more likely to adopt the milder wild cats and gradually bred them to become increasingly tame.

Fascinatingly, the British researchers were even able to determine the timing of the taming process through DNA analysis—finding genes in the brains of domesticated cats that are associated with feelings of reward and pleasure, that are not found in the DNA of today's wild cats in the Near East. In other words, domestic cats have acquired unique genes that make them want to be stroked, and DNA analysis shows that the split from wild cats that encouraged these genes occurred about 10 millennia ago. Ain't science grand?

Thus it seems kitty cats first came to us because they wanted to get caressed and fed. They saw humans as a soft touch, who would fondle them and give them goodies to eat. They ain't dumb! They deigned to allow us to tend to their pleasures and needs; in return we get a ball of warm fur cuddled in our lap. This appears to have been primarily a sensual exchange. But on occasion we do get the added benefit of our cat friend snatching an annoying mouse.

Dogs, on the other hand, domesticated themselves far earlier in human history. They came to us from wolf packs as long as 50,000 years ago and maybe even earlier. They too realized that humans could be a source of easy food, but dogs had more to offer us as part of the bargain. They are more sociable critters than cats, so they interact more naturally with us. They are expert and cooperative hunters with a superb sense of smell, so they became excellent hunting companions. Finally, dogs love to guard their dogdoms, which our vulnerable hunter-gatherer ancestors appreciated.

I don't mean to add any more fuel to the incessant cat-vs-dog debate, and I doubt that the English researchers intended to either, but I can't help but notice that dogs seem to have had more to offer us, when they sought to become our companions—at least a little more than allowing us to tickle them behind the ear. But let me quickly add that I do love my cat, lest I piss off my cousin again.

I'm reminded of a quote attributed to Grouch Marx: “Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.”

Solstice Yearnings

At this time of year my thoughts can turn to spring fruit blossoms.

Time Lost--Part 2

Is it any different 100 years after Laura Ingalls Wilder's questions? Twenty-first century technological toys make so many tasks even that much quicker to do. Yet how many people who've chosen to buy these things then feel rushed, pressured, and complain about not having enough time to do things? Many folks would love to find some “leisure time,” but never seem to. Email, texting, and Facebook allow us to communicate instantly with a large number of “friends.” Yet how often are people able or inclined to take the time to sit down and engage in a conversation with a friend or loved one? Instant microwave dinners or a pizza delivery provide a meal in short order, yet people gulp their food on the run; avoiding sitting down together to share a meal and conversation.

Wilder never attempts to answer her question of “What became of the time we saved.” In the short columns she penned, she chose not to go into many details; but she was also raising a rhetorical question, I believe. She knew well why we become so rushed, despite our fast cars and speedy machines, and I'm sure she could have waxed eloquently on about the paradox.

So let me hazard a guess about the cause, based on my experiences these last three decades in a rural setting. Shortly after we began our life out here, I found it fascinating (but at times unpleasant) that homestead tasks required so many hours each day. Some of that work was menial and slow... even boring. I often wondered about getting a machine to help me do things faster. But by and large I resisted that urge, because I also found myself able to pause frequently while laboring at some task and “take the time” to watch a bird or ponder a thought for a while. Having to spend so much time laboring, I was also free to slow down and engage with life.

What we seem to lose, when we acquire labor-saving, time-saving machines, is time to slow down and think; to pay attention to our world. It's such a lure to turn around and invest the time we save in acquiring a technological convenience by simply taking on another duty—making our life more complex. We live in a culture that values accomplishing and acquiring things; and in America we pretty much have the economic wherewithal to pursue them.

We all want to be happy. Our culture teaches us that getting things is the path to happiness. This process has become so ingrained in our society that we are hardly able to see the contradiction: the more we pursue things, the less happy we are; the more we acquire “time-saving” devices, the less time we have. Laura Ingalls Wilder eloquently described the conundrum.

Many sages and philosophers of the past have tried to point out the trap we fall into, when we invest so much energy into grasping for more. We humans have a problem reigning in our desires; to the point that our desires often control us. We tell ourselves that having just a little more (money, time...) will be so satisfying that we'll finally and truly be happy. We tell ourselves that buying this computer or smart phone will allow us to accomplish our online tasks more quickly and open up a little leisure time—when we just add to the number of online things we do and feel even more rushed. Email promises the ability to communicate with friends far faster than snail mail ever allowed—only to allow us to lengthen our list of “friends” we try to keep track of. And now we can text much faster than email!

I find it fascinating to read the words of a writer 100 years ago who described the same dilemma, when her slow-moving horse was turned out to pasture, in favor of the speedy motor car. Rushing to her meeting in her new auto, Laura Ingalls Wilder was able to pause (later) long enough to ask, “What became of the time the motor car saved us? Why was everyone late and in a hurry?” Those questions remain relevant, a century later. Is this progress?

Pigeon Head

My friend's daughter just graduated from college. They used to call her "Bird Brain."

Time Lost—Part 1

Most everyone knows Laura Ingalls Wilder (1867-1957) for her Little House series of books. Some 20 years before the first publication of one of these books (Little House in the Woods, in 1932), she wrote a column titled “As a Farm Woman Thinks,” in a local Missouri newspaper. Some 140 of these articles were collected and published in a 1991 book, Little House in the Ozarks: The Rediscovered Writings.

Wilder honed her writing skills in this column for over 14 years (from 1911 to 1925). She wrote about the simple pleasures of country living and all the mundane-but-meaningful tasks one engages in. I enjoy her insights and descriptions, as the lifestyle is roughly similar to what I chose, some three decades ago.

I have countless times had impressed upon me how one trades time for money, when living a pared-back rural life. In order to acquire the things you need for this kind of lifestyle, it seems you have to put in lots of time, since you've chosen not to possess much money. Laura Ingalls Wilder eloquently describes her enjoyment in performing the many time-consuming tasks that a “farm woman” faces.

Some of her columns in the Little House in the Ozarks wrestle with the issue of technology and how technological conveniences are able to trim the amount of time required for certain domestic tasks. When folks 100 years ago acquired a washing machine, the weekly laundry went much more quickly. By buying a vacuum cleaner the house got spiffied up posthaste. These devices are often described as “labor-saving”; the implication being that one would have more “free” time for other pursuits.

In one of Wilder's columns titled “What became of the Time We Saved,” she wondered why it is that we find ourselves increasingly busy and rushed, after we invest in technology. In this article she writes about driving to a women's club meeting in a neighboring town in a newly-purchased motor car. She describes how she used to travel the same route slowly by horse and buggy, taking nearly all day to get there and back. The speedy motor car promised to save her much time.

Yet her experience was that she—as well as others—now arrived late for the meeting. Everyone hurried through the session, hurried during their after-meeting chats, and hurried all the way home, to arrive later than before, when they traveled by leisurely-paced horse. She asks, “What became of the time the motor car saved us?” She writes that she and her friends now have “so many machines and so many helps,” yet “there seems to be no time for anything.”

More lost time next time...

Acorn Shrooms

These fall mushrooms look like acorns to me.

Fart Fixes

Who woulda thought that farts would ever be useful for anything other than gastrointestinal relief or crude comedy? Some recent scientific findings about gaseous human emissions particularly caught my interest, since a few folks have dubbed me Old Fart—and not for nothing. My lower intestinal tract seems to be a prolific producer of hydrogen sulfide and methane—both smelly greenhouse gases. Each, when released by me (always inadvertently), seems bent on creating loud raspberry sounds, as they exit my nether region.

When I was younger and involved in societal activities, I frequently had to exercise restraint of my sphincter, lest I become a pariah. Now that I'm old and living the life of a rural hermit, I couldn't care less about my odoriferous emanations. Thankfully, I have a tolerant spouse (who is not untalented in the same arena).

Depending on one's culture, farts are regarded as normal as a hiccup, viewed as a complementary comment on the culinary skills of the host, a hilarious joke, or the offensive equivalent of a punch to the nose. One man's fart can either be another man's complement or insult.

But now from the UK comes results of a research program that demonstrated that smelling farts can cure diseases! What? I'm not kidding. Well, maybe it could be put more accurately that the droll Brits at the University of Exeter conducted experiments that demonstrated inhaling a dose of hydrogen sulfide is able to protect a cell's mitochondria. These mitochondria not only supply the cell's energy, but are also vulnerable to damage by diseases. The potential implication of their study: smelling a fart can inhibit mitochondrial damage, boosting the body's ability to resist disease. The deeper message: eat more beans and cure cancer!

But wait; let's be cautious about this so-called “wind”fall. Before we get carried away, it should be noted that the Exeter U findings did not mention disease cures, or even farts. The demure scientists only reported that inhaling hydrogen sulfide was found to be a protector of a cell's mitochondria. Once again, the popular press seized upon the results to jump to wild conclusions about the healing power of farts. But reality tells us that, as with the advent of any major scientific discovery which seems to contradict the accepted paradigm, further research is needed, in order to solidify this surprising finding as a new law or proven theory.

Hmm, further research. Maybe I can help. I think I'll contact the British fart researchers, to volunteer my deft skill at generating copious quantities of hydrogen sulfide. All they would have to pay me is my flight costs over there, a modest hotel bill, and pick up my tab at the local pub. I would love to visit Kew Gardens while there. Who knows, I may even get my 15 minutes of fetid fame and become known as the Fart Physician... though I really have gotten used to Old Fart.

Venus Transit

Taken in June 2012 by NASA, as Venus transited the sun.

Nighttime Niches—Part 2

Perching birds have evolved a neat trick that keeps them from tumbling off their roost, after they fall asleep. As a kid, I sometimes fell out of bed, but the floor was a lot closer for me than the ground is to a chickadee perched high in a tree. So evolution has given them an automatic clenching grip; a tendon in their leg that involuntarily locks onto the perch and won't let go until they awaken and straighten their leg. I guess they can't afford to have twitchy legs in the night, lest they come tumbling down.

(I jokingly envision a perching bird settling on an ice-coated twig on some winter night, locking its grip around the twig and promptly falling asleep. Soon its feet begin to melt the ice a little, the twig becomes slippery, and the bird flops over, head down, remaining asleep, with its claws still clamped to the twig. That's an unlikely scenario, but songbirds have been observed sleeping upside down—feet still locked onto the branch, even without ice.)

Once it finds a niche that seems to be safe from predators, a small bird's top priority becomes staying warm. Birds maintain a high body temperature (105^o F or more) and their tiny body loses heat quickly. Hence, their metabolism screams along at high speed—so high that they must spend many hours each day trying to fill their tiny tummies with enough food to fuel themselves. It can be a real threat for a bird to snooze through the night without eating—especially when the overnight temperatures drop precipitously.

So how do they keep from freezing? (When sudden cold snaps occur, in fact, many songbirds do perish.) First of all, evolution has given them feathers—a superb insulating coat. A bird will fluff its down feathers out beneath its outer flight feathers, and turn its head around, burying its face in its warm fuzzies. In fact, birds' ancestors—some species of dinosaurs—were the first to evolve feathers, partly to keep them warm. Feathers are a better insulator than mammal fur. Humans still strive to synthesize materials that do as well as goose down.

Second, some birds enter a state of torpor while they sleep—significantly lowering their body temperature to conserve energy. Tiny hummingbirds take this route. (Smaller birds lose body heat far faster than big birds.) But I wonder if a hummingbird could go so deep that it ignores the morning alarm clocks (other birds singing loudly), and thus miss filling its gustatory needs for the day.

Third, some birds seek out a nighttime perch that is not only safe from predators, but is much cozier than staying out in the cold: they tuck themselves into cavities or sneak into man-made shelters. Finally, the flocking technique; where many birds huddle together for safety. It helps to share body heat. But I wonder if they jostle through the night for interior sleeping positions that are warmer, as penguins do in southern polar climes.

I guess that most of my bird-watching times will remain during daylight hours. Even if I could find a way to observe them at night (get me a pair of infrared binoculars?), it'd be rather boring—sort of like the proverbial exciting sport of watching grass grow.

Nighttime Niches--Part 1

I love to watch birds. Furthermore, I feel that feeding them and providing good habitat helps them thrive and reproduce—along with providing me with many watching opportunities. We've planted a wide variety of shrubs and flowers that offer them nesting sites, as well as attract the kinds of bugs they love to eat. It is a thrill to watch mom and dad feed and encourage their newly-fledged kids to fly.

As dusk comes on each night, the last song is heard, the last visit to the feeder is made; then our songbirds fly off to sleep the night away. Quiet settles in, until the various nocturnal birds—owls and whippoorwills—take up night duty and fill the woods with their calls.

I know that diurnal birds find a place to sleep—a place that needs to be as safe from predators as possible. But where? I've never seen a cardinal or a chickadee asleep at night. I don't go around with a flashlight trying to spot them snoozing, but I've often wondered where they go to doze. When parents are brooding chicks, I'm sure they constantly cover their babies to protect them, so at least one parent passes the night on the nest; but how about the rest of the year, when babies are not a concern?

Once the nesting season is over, birds will usually abandon the nest, since it is no longer needed, but it also is coated with droppings and scattered feathers, that attract predators and parasites; so it makes sense to stay away from it. So again, I wonder, where do they camp out at night?

A little research gave me some general answers. I have yet to actually spot one of our birds sleeping the night away, safe in its niche; but now I know where some of them might be found. Songbirds find various kinds of perches for sleep. Their main objective is to avoid nighttime predators—owls, raccoons, and other nocturnal carnivores—and to preserve body heat; so they survive to sing and find bugs (or my sunflower seeds) the next day. Some will seek various kinds of cavities or nooks where a large predator will not be able to get at them. Some may sleep in a location where an approaching predator must make noise or create disturbing vibrations that alert them of danger. (Say, on a flimsy branch that supports them securely, but a perch that a larger critter will shake.) They may also cluster in large flocks—giving them safety in numbers, while a few sentries on the edges stay awake through the night.

More on bird snoozing next time...

Ringneck Snake

This is a baby ringneck snake, about 4 inches (10 cm) long. Every late summer time we find 3-4 of these little guys in the house. How they get there, we have no idea. We chase them and grab them, to deposit them outdoors. I did some internet research, to find that adult ringsnakes are nocturnal critters, and thus seldom seen. We have never in 30 years spotted one, yet every year we chase down the babies and place them outdoors. How does their momma get her babies inside the house? The mystery remains.

Click to enlarge.

Focus on the Negative

The words of the 1944 pop song by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer, “Accentuate the Positive,” came to mind recently, as I mentally hummed the tune and remembered a few lines. The song was written after one of the composers listened to a preacher giving the advice, “Accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” The first two verses of the song are:

        You've got to accentuate the positive
        Eliminate the negative
        And latch on to the affirmative
        Don't mess with Mister In-Between

        You've got to spread joy up to the maximum
        Bring gloom down to the minimum
        Have faith or pandemonium's
        Liable to walk upon the scene

The tune suggests that life can be happier if we put attention to those things that are useful, beneficial, and constructive. It's sort of like a pop sermon. It's a message that both ancient sages and modern psychology agree with.

Many things happen to us each day—a mixture of good, bad, and neutral. It's our choice how we respond to them: we can dwell on the negative things and allow them to darken our mood, or we can point to the positive things and let them lift us. We can curse the harmful things or be thankful for the good stuff. When we do the latter, we can “spread joy up to the maximum.” It's a sentiment that few of us would oppose.

Despite the common-sense message of “accentuate the positive,” it seems to me that humans have consistently paid greater attention to the negative. Violent and harmful actions in the world happen too often and garner inordinate attention. Our news media are biased strongly towards featuring blameworthy events, while giving scant coverage to praiseworthy things. The evening TV news is a litany of gruesome and brutal events—often appropriately described by the phrase, “If it bleeds, it leads.”

Our entertainment media—TV, films, songs—stress violence and negativity. You've got to dig way back in the newspaper to find an article that accentuates the positive, or wait patiently for a “good news” movie to come to the local cinema. (Those examples date me. Today's newspaper is found online and movies are streamed directly into your living room. But the point is still valid.)

Why is this? Why are we fascinated more by bad behavior than good? It seems to be the human condition: we tend to focus on the negative. While we talk of wanting peace, we glorify war. It's ironic, if not lamentable.

There is endless debate on whether the violent nature of our entertainment is contributing to the violent behavior of so many people. Many studies have suggested that young people are particularly influenced by the negativity, yet little is done about it. It's hard to believe that the negatively biased media and entertainment industries don't have some unhelpful influence.

It causes me to wonder if inordinate attention to bad behavior helps to make some people feel better about themselves, because they can then point to somebody else whose behavior is worse than theirs. Does this process allow one to whitewash one's moral shortcomings? Every one of us knows that our behavior could be much better than it is, so it can ease our conscience a bit, if we can point to someone else's reprehensible behavior.

It seems to be rather boring for many people to “accentuate the positive.” Maybe the phrase can cause one to hum the tune, but it seems to be nowhere as exciting as focusing on the negative, or giving attention to bad behavior. It's far easier (and fun?) to be naughty than nice.

Tis the Season

Curious Cat

There's an old dictum that is periodically dragged out, in order to warn someone not to be so inquisitive or prying into others' matters: “Curiosity killed the cat.” Its origin is so old that most people are not aware of how it came to be. It's interesting advice, but I tend to think that it's often used inappropriately. What's wrong with curiosity? Sure, we might be going too far if we're meddling in other people's private affairs, but curiosity—defined as a strong desire to learn something—is an admirable trait, for the most part.

So where did this metaphor of warning about the potential problems of being curious originate? As usual, an internet search quickly guides me to Wikipedia—wherein I find that the expression goes back to Shakespeare and his 16^th century cohorts. (Doesn't everything in the English culture stem from him?) The word used by these authors, rather than curiosity, was “care,” which, at the time, meant that something like “worry” or “sorrow” killed the cat. But then, Shakespeare's metaphors are often a stretch for modern people to comprehend. In time, the saying evolved to having the cat get killed, not through worry, but by snooping.

I discovered a very different take on curiosity recently, that is more appealing to me. Researchers at the University of California, Davis conducted an experiment which showed that people learn better when their curiosity is stimulated. Now, this result may not be all that surprising in itself, since no student can learn effectively when bored stiff. When our curiosity is piqued, however, when we are interested in a subject, it's logical that we'll do a better job of understanding it.

No surprise there. What's interesting about the UC Davis study is that the researchers were able to show why people learn better when they're curious: it's because curiosity fires up the brain's dopamine reward circuitry. In other words, the brain responds to curiosity in a similar way that it does when we yearn for chocolate and other such pleasures.

Students' curiosity was stimulated in the experiment by posing certain intriguing questions, and then comparing their brains' reactions to when rather boring questions were posed. Their brains were simultaneously scanned, to show that when when they were curious, brain activity rose in those regions that transmit dopamine signals. When questioned again at a later time, students' memories were one-third better for those questions that lit up their brains' curiosity centers, than for the tedious questions.

The researchers concluded that they were best able to boost students' memories on those questions for which they had some previous knowledge, but were then purposefully presented with a gap in their understanding. Just like going for another piece of chocolate, the study's subjects were driven to find the answer. Their curiosity pushed them to find out.

I believe that good teachers innately understand this, when they stimulate interest in their students. It's less a question of entertaining them to try to capture their attention, than it is finding ways to engender a spirit of inquiry in them... helping them to see the deeper wonders of a subject. Purposefully leaving gaps in a presentation and then asking students what bit of knowledge could fill that gap can stimulate both curiosity and learning.

Now, I don't think that cats have the cognitive ability to be stimulated by unusual questions aimed at increasing their dopamine levels. But they do seem to be constantly poking their noses into places where they have no right to. On the other hand, if they get into deep trouble, they can rely on another old dictum; knowing they have eight more remaining lives if they lose this one.

Fall Colors

A maple in its full glory.

Web Wonderings

A spider begins spinning its web by crawling up to some choice vantage perch and reeling out a test line—a sticky silk thread that a breeze will carry to a distant stationary object, to which the silk adheres. Once the far end of the line sticks to something firm, the spider slides down the silk, thickening and strengthening it as she goes. This strong line then becomes an anchor thread that will later support the web, after the spider similarly constructs a couple of other anchor lines.

It's a rather haphazard process, as the spider cannot control where the opposite end of the anchor lines will attach. Thus, the orientation of the web is determined more by fickle breezes that waft through, rather than the intent of the spider.

Smart, successful spiders try to establish their webs in locations where many tasty insects will be flying—to be suddenly trapped in the silky snare. I would assume that evolution has taught a web spider to pick a high traffic zone—otherwise it starves. I doubt that evolution, however, has yet endowed spiders with ways to manipulate the wind, so there is a definite degree of chance to the process. Specifically, the orientation of the web is not within the spider's purview. 

 

So even a smart spider may end up fashioning its web in a direction that has little chance of capturing many bugs. For example, I am sitting in my outdoor tub tonight, looking above me, and seeing a spider's web that is nearly flat against the wall. I don't think that many insects will be intending to fly into the wall tonight, so this web strikes me as one that will see minimal bug traffic. Had the breeze blown that first anchor line in another direction, the spider may have been able to orient its web perpendicular to, or protruding out from the wall—much more likely to snare passing insects. Ahh... the vagaries of the wind.

Another intriguing aspect of spider webs I often ponder is the fact that birds can see into the ultra-violet (UV) range of the light spectrum, and since a spider's web reflects UV light, a bird can see the web and avoid flying into it. This capability is an advantage to both the bird and the spider: the bird doesn't get its feathers coated with sticky silk goo and the web is not destroyed. So if birds have UV vision, I wonder why some insects—locked into a perpetual evolutionary arms race with spiders—have not also developed UV vision. There's another area of research for someone.

(As an aside, a recent development in window construction is to glaze windows with a UV-reflective coating. Birds are far less likely to fly into these windows and kill themselves, because they see the glaze and it stops them, but humans cannot see the coating and thus view the window as transparent. And some of us walk into them.)

Yet another web wondering I have: As I walk through the woods in summer, along the many paths I have created, I keep wandering through spider webs and having them splay themselves across my face or along my bare arms. I'm constantly struggling to wipe off these sticky structures. It can cause a pleasant stroll through the woods to degenerate into a yucky dance, in which I'm striving to wipe off web particles that I can't even see. I hate to destroy a carefully-crafted web, but I can't see them—not having been blessed with UV vision like birds.

This makes me ponder the fact that many of my paths that wander through the woods are also used by deer, since they are smart enough to see that it's easier to follow my paths than forge their way through the tangled underbrush. Deer must also at times find themselves wrapped in spider web strands. How do they deal with it? Does it irritate them as much as it does me? Might they get distracted by the damn spider webs and lose crucial alertness to their predators?

I would be grateful if deer were as tall as I am, since they would then clear out many spider webs for me and make my walks nicer—but they are just not tall enough to sweep away the webs at my face level. They're too short. Hmm.. I wonder if I could breed deer with giraffes, to create a tall, long-necked deer, that would clear out spider webs for me. That sure sounds like another kind of ground-breaking research that would benefit mankind... at least this man.

Farm Sitting

This week we are farm sitting for friends on a sheep farm in Virginia's Allegheny Mountains.

Mind-reading Dove

I wrote a blog entry recently on cross-species communication. I've been privileged to have a few magical experiences of this kind of interaction. Recently I encountered a mourning dove, who I imagined might be reading my mind—although he ended up by misconstruing my thoughts... or so I whimsically decided.

We have half a dozen or more resident mourning doves in our little clearing. They are a beautiful bird and are fun to watch. They have a characteristic whistling sound that their wings give off when they fly, something unique to them. A dove will charmingly waddle around the feeder tray, downing multiple sunflower seeds—stashing them in its neck pouch for later digestion.

Doves sometimes flock together and at other times feud with each other—especially at the feeder. One of these doves has recently taken to becoming king of the feeder. He chases off any dove that dares to challenge him. He will fly down and perch near or on the feeder—seemingly not interested in eating, while he patiently waits for another dove come to dine. He aggressively chases each one away, then returns to claim his kingly roost. King Dove on his throne!

Mourning doves are very skittish birds. I cannot get closer than 40-50 feet away, before they burst into the air and fly away on their “whistling wings.” In contrast, a tiny chickadee will land almost with arm's reach on the feeder and calmly choose a seed—hardly paying me any attention.

On a couple of occasions recently, however, I have been reposing meditatively in the outdoor tub, as I observed this pugnacious dove shoo away his fellows and then settle down to keep his kingly watch. Surprisingly, he tolerates my presence, rather than get spooked and leave. I like to think that my calm state of being emboldens him, as I send him mental messages such as, “Don't be scared. I'm harmless. Relax, King Dove.”

We both then settle in, each intently eying the other. If I move, I do so extremely slowly. He bravely stands his ground, as if he's sending me a mental message, “Move slowly, now. I don't really trust you and your kind, but you seem to be non-threatening.” Is he learning to trust me? Is he deciding to break new ground in the dove-human communication field?

We watched one another for several minutes and then suddenly he flew off—just when I thought we were bonding. What scared him? Was his abrupt departure a coincidence, or did I do something to spook him? I'm sure I didn't move.

Then I realized that, at the moment he flew off, my mind had drifted to a conversation I'd had with a neighbor a couple of days earlier, when he told me about some local people who had taken up dove hunting. Was that it? Did the dove read my mind and get terrified by my thoughts of shooting him and his kind? If so, he probably wasn't sophisticated enough to realize that I would never shoot him. Maybe he simply misconstrued my involuntary thoughts.

It was too late to reassure him, if he indeed had read my thoughts and flew off in fright. Maybe my thoughts of some other human gunning down a dove had set back this cross-species experiment in trust. Will he return another time and give me another chance? This research into cross-species communication requires a deep well of patience. I'll be back in the tub soon, little King Dove.

Colorful Floating Fall Leaf

Cross-species Communication—Part 2

Last time I wrote about cross-species communication that others have explored or have had. This time I'd like to describe some personal experiences.

We may not be able to chat with an animal, but it is foolish to think that there is an unbridgeable gap between us and them. They have many subtle ways of communicating with each other and we can close that gap if we allow ourselves to. If we let go of our myth of superiority and permit the more primal parts of us to become involved, we can realize a deeper connection to other animal species. A good way to begin is to shut our mouth, slow down, pay attention, and open to the possibilities that lie within.

I have had a couple examples over the years of a kind of communication with animals, that have deeply impacted me. In the first case I was working in the yard when I had my attention diverted by birds sounding an alarm. I looked toward the commotion and spotted a black snake raiding a bluebird nesting box. A couple of nestlings had been scattered to the ground and a couple of others had been eaten. I had been enjoying watching these birds over the past few weeks, so I chased the snake off, and replaced the scattered nestlings in the box. I then had to repeat my intervention twice over the next hour or so, as the persistent reptile returned for a follow-up meal attempt.

Later in the afternoon, when things had quieted down, I sat in a swing across the yard from the nesting box, contemplating the traumatic incident. The father bluebird flew to a tree just a few feet away, stared at me intently for a few minutes, and then flew back to his family. These birds are very shy, yet this bird approached me and perched close by. Was he thanking me? It felt like some kind of communication.

In the second case I had just returned from a 10-day silent meditation retreat, so I was in a very calm state of mind. Walking down a path through the woods, I spotted a tiny fawn ahead of me. I stopped and simply watched it for a few minutes. Maybe I transmitted a message of peace to the little guy, because it began to approach me, tail wagging slowly and hesitantly. I moved equally slowly towards the fawn, holding out my hand. As we came together, it reached out and touched its nose to my hand. The fawn suddenly froze, as if to wonder how it got so close to a human, then turned and bounced off into the woods.

It's not clear that these incidents were a case of cross-species communication, but they sure were unique examples of finding myself thrilled to have some kind of close encounter with a critter—a kind of encounter in which the animal seemed to choose to approach me on its own.

Cross-species Communication--Part 1

Cross-species communication is a subject that many people have explored over the ages—with mixed success. Indigenous peoples felt that they could readily do so, as they conferred with their totem animals and other critters around them. Human-to-human communication is sometimes fraught with its own limitations, but is immeasurably easier, because we have evolved a complex and cogent language. Additionally, we humans share a similar sort of mind which assures us that we think alike and hence more readily relate to one another. Finally, human culture is strikingly disparate from animal culture, and that difference adds a major barrier to cross-species communication.

Despite these contrasts, it's been only in recent decades that humans have come to accept the fact that we are just another animal and that we may be able to be more in touch with others critters than we think. There is little fundamental difference between us and many other members of the animal kingdom (especially other mammals)—it's more a matter of degree in how we vary. We seem finally willing to give animals feelings, emotions, and even thoughts—capabilities we once denied them. Among other progressive results, it has brought about better treatment of animals on our part. Where once we even denied them the ability to feel pain (thanks to René Descartes), we now understand that many have the ability for cognitive activities that we once thought were impossible. Yet we still struggle to communicate with our fellow animals.

I recently read a book that delves deeply into an example of the issue of cross-species communication: The Wauchula Woods Accord: Toward a New Understanding of Animals, by Charles Siebert. He writes about a profound experience he once had with a chimpanzee named Roger. Siebert had long been exploring the ways in which humans treat animals, such as when we domesticate them or keep them in zoos—especially fellow hominids such as chimpanzees. He was researching the ways in which people treat captive chimps, when he visited a Florida retirement home for former apes who had starred in movies, on TV, and in the circus.

One of the chimps, Roger, a former circus star, preferred to keep to himself—ignoring his fellow retirees. When Siebert arrived at Roger's cage, escorted by the director of the retirement home, Roger zeroed in on Siebert, fixing him with a stare, almost as if the chimp knew him from somewhere. It transfixed the man.

Over the next couple of weeks Siebert sojourned at the retirement home and spent many hours, one-on-one, in intense contemplation with Roger. During that time the author experienced some deep connections with the chimp—causing him to shake off many of human society's presumptions about “dumb” animals and how we have mistreated them.

More on communication next time...

Horsefly

Look at those nasty weapons! (Click to enlarge)

Here she is, full size.

I wrote a blog sometime ago about how horseflies can drive me buggy. This one attacked me the other night while I was reposing in the tub. She was hoping to sink those sharp knives into my skin. She would not cease her dives at me, until I was able to swat her down, without killing her or smashing her flat--allowing me to get some photos of her. She is about an inch (2-3 cm) long. It took me several swipes to knock her out of the air, before I could relax in the water again.

Immutable Moon

When I wander through the woods, I note the scenery around me changing, as I approach and pass trees, wildflowers, and shrubs. The faster I walk, the faster the scenery changes. That's a big reason why I sometimes stroll slowly along: it gives me ample time to gaze at the passing wonders.

There's an interesting phenomenon (one we often pay no attention to) caused by my changing perspective, as I walk along: close, small objects (like shrubs) quickly pass and recede behind me, while distant, large objects (like trees) stay in my view for a longer time period. An extreme example of this phenomenon is looking at distant hills as I walk—it takes far longer to put them behind me... maybe all day!

But the ultimate examples of this perspective phenomenon are the Moon, the sun, and the stars. They are so far away that I could walk all day and all night long and they'd never move from their location in the sky. If, for example, the Moon is directly overhead tonight, I could even jump in the car and drive for hours in any direction and Mr. Moon would remain exactly overhead.

If we think about it for a moment, what I've been describing is obvious and even a little trivial sounding, but I have learned over the years to pause and give so-called obvious thoughts a second look. We humans have a tendency to become accustomed to common events, to the extent that we almost become oblivious to them. We don't allow them to show us something a little different that we've not noticed before. We can become jaded—been there, done that—let me move on to the next novelty.

I was slowed down and caught up by a fascinating perspective on this issue the other evening, when I took a few moments to pause and take another look at what happened when I saw the Moon. I stepped outside and casually noted where the Moon was hovering that evening, by noting where it was located in the upper branches of a nearby tree. Then I walked a few feet in a familiar direction, knowing unconsciously how my perspective of the overhead trees would change, when I looked up again. As I did, I was momentarily taken aback by the fact that the Moon hadn't moved with the trees. What I had expected—without really thinking about it—didn't happen: the trees fell behind me, but the Moon had not! It was keeping up with me.

When I was a kid I heard the expression, “The Moon is following me.” Of course, it doesn't.. it simply stays at the same location in the sky wherever one moves. As you pass trees and buildings, the Moon can't be passed up, no matter how fast or far we move. It just “keeps up” with us.

Another interesting example of this phenomenon is the moth that keeps circling a candle or streetlight. Evolution has taught the moth to use the immutable Moon as a guide when flying at night. Since the Moon stays at the same location, the moth can set course and fly a straight line from one point to another. But evolution did not prepare the moth for these late-comer humans, who build and install night lights. The poor moth keeps trying to keep the streetlight off to its left, but is forced to make circles around it, since it did not “keep up” with the moth.

It's nice to pause now and then and tune into what's really happening at the moment; to allow the everyday events to capture (or recapture) our attention and show us a fresh perspective. They may seem routine and mundane, but they can also bring us little surprises and fascinating reflections.

Copperhead Family

Copperhead snakes are common in Virginia and rather poisoness. While recently uncovering the cover to the compost pile, I was greeted with the startling sight of momma copperhead and her seven babies. After jumping back a few feet, I ran for the camera to record the family photo. Here are four of the babies. Each one is nearly a foot long.










And here is momma, keeping a close eye on me. She's about three feet long. You can see why they're called copperheads.

Hard Science

My formal education and former career were in the so-called “hard science” of physics. I also taught college physics for a brief stint, and was taken aback by how many students came to the course apprehensive—if not downright fearful—about surviving the experience. Physics, it seems, has acquired a frightful reputation. I soon took it as a challenge to demonstrate that this most basic of sciences is remarkably straightforward and even engaging. I tried to make it fascinating... with modest success at best. Within the department that I taught, there were other science classes in biology and chemistry. I don't think that their instructors dealt with students who were as intimidated as I did—and I never quite understood why.

In contrast, biology is not a “hard” science—although when put that way, the contrast makes it seem as if biology is easier... or even “soft,” whatever that means. Whatever the descriptive terms used, physics and biology are two contrasting sciences—the former is far more basic. One of the fundamental differences in the two sciences is that most researchers in the so-called hard science of physics have a pretty good idea of what things they are looking for in their research. As an example, a major effort in physics for decades now has been the so-called “grand unified theory,” that integrates the four fundamental forces of nature: gravity, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear forces. Physicists know pretty much where they are headed (to realize that unification)—the struggle is deciphering the fierce mathematics to get there. Another example: last year a huge team of physicists demonstrated the existence of the Higgs boson—a particle that had been predicted to exist for decades. Its discovery had to wait for a powerful enough machine to expose it.

Biology, however, is neither elegant nor straightforward, like physics. Biology deals with the messy living world—a domain rife with variety and unpredictable complexity. Life is the result of a long process of historical accidents—unpredictable events that have brought about species that responded well to those random historical incidents. For example, the ascendancy of mammals began about 65 million years ago, in the wake of an unlikely collision that brought a massive meteorite to impact Earth and did away with the dinosaurs. No one could have seen that impact coming. Sudden and haphazard climate changes have similarly caused many species to evolve in manners that no “grand unified theory” could ever have anticipated.

As a result, biologists are often left hanging as to why certain organisms developed the way they did. They are often forced to project back in time, surmising causal factors for the observations they make. At times these factors are discovered through a process of complex scientific sleuthing. At other times it seems as if they might never fully be understood.

Biology is a frustratingly complex and difficult science. At least it seems that way to me—having been trained in what is considered a more basic science. In recent years I have become increasingly fascinated with biology, but struggle with its complicated and manifold divisions. It seems as if I have to memorize hundreds of terms and all of their relationships, in order to get anywhere with it. I'm glad I'm not a college student sitting in a biology class—trying to understand such a difficult subject.

To Think or Not to Think

Is he in contemplation or just existing? (Click to enlarge)

Hate to Think

Recent studies at the University of Virginia and Harvard University illustrate the extent to which people will go, to avoid having to sit quietly in solitude. We have apparently become a culture that is so caught up in busyness and becoming absorbed by our latest technical toys, that people no longer are able to be alone to contemplate. Our lifestyles find us constantly involved in doing something—even if it's only passively sitting and watching a (very exciting) TV show. We want to be engaged by things outside us—not to sit silently and think.

People who participated in these studies were asked to sit alone in a room for 10-15 minutes and do nothing—at most, just think. When their time was up they were asked about the experience. Most of them described it as extremely unpleasant. They could hardly endure the time alone, facing just their thoughts.

In addition, the participants were given the opportunity to administer a mild electric shock to themselves—an experience they earlier had said (after trying a sample shock) they'd go to great lengths to avoid. But after sitting alone for a few minutes, as they suffered from the boredom, many of them preferred to shock themselves, rather than endure the silence and deal with their thoughts. They chose an electric shock over the tedium of solitude! In fact, one guy chose to jolt himself 190 times during the 15-minute span!

Findings like this are shocking (in a very different manner) to this old hermit. I find solitude inviting, invigorating, and inspirational. I love to sit in my outdoor tub or my meditation hut and either let my mind wander or seek to empty it and and try to fully engage with the present moment. I find the fast-paced modern life and the ever-present communication devices frenetic enough that I think I'd rather endure an electric shock than face them. When I find myself in a doctor's waiting room, I cringe at the ubiquitous TV screen that constantly sucks us into its grip.

I'm not surprised that many people would not enjoy the life of solitude and contemplation. That's probably why the ranks of contemplatives around the world are steadily thinning. Our modern culture offers us so many diversions that it's difficult to avoid the conditioning that drives us to become involved in doing something every moment. It makes me wonder where we're going, however, when folks are unable to sit quietly for 15 minutes, without jolting themselves with a little pain—just to break the tedium.

Big Eyes

A black-throated green warbler. Click to enlarge.

Astute Avian Eyes

Birds' eyes are their dominant sense organ. They can hear quite well and some birds even smell well, but their sense of vision triumphs. In fact, their eyes are so large for the size of their heads that there's no room left for muscles to rotate them. They must cock their heads from side to side, in order to cover a decent field of view.

So visual acuity is definitely a bird's strong point. They can see two to three times more sharply than humans. The color and detail receptors in a bird's eye—called cones—are two to three times greater in number than for us. (That's something like 15 million cones, in a much smaller eye!) Their visual acuity leaves us far behind.

I recently watched a titmouse at the bird feeder—extracting and then rejecting at least 10-15 sunflower seeds, before becoming satisfied enough to fly off with a choice seed and commence to grasp it in its feet and bang away with its beak, to get at the sweet nut within. Most titmice (as well as their close cousins the chickadees) will fly to the feeder, quickly grab the first seed they can, and fly away to work at it. Why was this particular titmouse being so finicky—tossing away rejected seeds, until it found just the right one?

The surface of the feeder tray is strewn with hundreds of sunflower seeds and empty hulls—the latter being far dominant. When I look at the tray (to see if it's time to replenish seeds) I tend to think that there are plenty of them available, so I sometimes delay restocking the container. If I take a closer look, however (by taking the time to put my glasses on), I can usually see that most of them are empty husks. I have to look closely to determine this, yet I watch one of these birds fly to the platform, instantaneously grab a seed from all the empty hulls, and fly away to get at its interior morsel. Such keen eyesight! Their astute sense of vision is also demonstrated when I watch one of them dart to a tree trunk and pluck a tiny, juicy bug from a tiny crack.

Back to the picky titmouse who rejected a dozen or more seeds, before finally flying off with one: I'm assuming that it was looking for a fat seed, that promised a particularly large interior nut. If so, it was demonstrating an enhanced ability over its buddies, to be choosy and find that fat seed.

Why is only this one bird being so choosy? I've seen him do this trick before. While all the other titmice flit down and quickly grab a seed, this guy takes his time. Has he learned something that the others have not? Is his eyesight simply less astute? Another fascinating observation may be leading me towards one more step into the lives of these local birds.