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.

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...