Science and the "Thrill of the Kill"

I will admit, I have become a bit set in my ways at fifty. I don't feel fifty, but then neither did I feel forty when I turned that milestone. I have come to understand (through hindsight) that it is human nature to understand and appreciate things *through* hindsight. From time to time, one should turn around and look in the direction of their hind end. That is the beginning of wisdom, as long as the one looking in the direction of their hind end doesn't start talking out of it. Then it becomes something else.

So, we're talking science and nature now. Good. We need to do that from time to time. But let's not get tunnel vision, here. I've read the phrase "thrill of the kill" quite a bit lately. What exactly is the "thrill of the kill?" Since science is really the art of observation, we should probably treat it as such.

I think that if science and nature had it's way, and man was the civilized being he thinks he is (the most crucial part of this scenario), we probably would not have pets. There would be no need to contain an animal to enjoy it's presence. Without the learned behavior of fearing man, animals would be around us all the time, coming and going freely of their own design. Man, who arrogantly deems himself the highest animal (were he only to live up to it), would interact with the rest of nature in relative harmony. That is my own personal fantasy, of course. Maybe your's, too. But it is not how things are. It is not science; it is just how I wished it would be. This I admit freely. I am "hoomin."

"Hoomins" tend to anthropomorphize nature. We are not omniscient, but while that fact is painfully obvious, it is also conveniently ignored. We can only see things with a human bias, and we anthropomorphize other beings when the reality of how they are does not fit in with our comfort level, or how we would like them to be. We are faineant beings when it comes to true knowledge. It is much easier to be the "kings" of the planet and simplistically pretend that what we wish to be true is true. We are all guilty of this to some end.

Here on this list we love our ferrets. My wife and I treat our ferrets as if they were our children, as do many of you. Thrust into an environment designed for "hoomins," we see in ferrets some of the same characteristics that we see in our own "hoomin" offspring, such as helplessness and innocence. It is hard-wired in our human psyche to find it abhorrent to let helpless and innocent beings suffer. It is the reason we feel uncomfortable listening to an infant cry without doing something about it. Maybe it is instinct, or maybe it's compassion on our parts (implying a choice), but the fact is that we tend to react to all beings who are helpless and innocent in the same way, offspring or not.

It is no wonder we are conflicted. We would not intentionally let a three-year-old child purposely kill another living being. It is abhorrent to us, and we teach them the morality of the act - that it is wrong to kill. But when we observe this same behavior in our ferrets, it troubles us because we cannot teach these "children" the same morality. To resolve it in our minds, we have to let go of our anthropomorphism for a moment and accept that our ferrets, who are driven by nature, cannot be taught morality. But back to "thrill of the kill..."

I understand the "kill" part. I have watched one of my ferrets kill a bug and eat it, but I never saw the "thrill" part of it. It all happened matter-of-factly. My ferret ate the bug like I would eat a potato chip out of a bag, but even that statement is filled with my own personal bias - and that is my point. I could discern no "thrill of the kill" on my ferret's part. It is instinctive for a carnivore to be aggressive and efficient when killing prey, but to anthropomorphize the act as "thrilling" to the carnivore is about as unscientific as it gets.

When my ferret ate the bug, I could not ask him if he enjoyed killing it. We did not telepathically communicate, nor was were there any observance that could be scientifically defined as the human interpretation of "thrilled." There is no way anyone could know what my ferret was actually thinking, or if killing the bug was "thrilling" to him. I do not know if ferrets are capable of such abstract thought. I do not know that they are *not*. I am not a ferret, and what I *don't* know about abstract thought and ferrets could fill a few libraries - and that is my point.

It is all anthropomorphism. Whether we are dressing our ferrets up in human-like clothes, or thinking that they are "cold-blooded" killers, we are using human bias to project onto animals what it is that *we* think and feel. It is understandable, but it is not science.

I can go to Carl's Jr. and wolf down one of their Six-Dollar burgers in no time, but if I had to stun and slaughter the cow myself... well, it would be veggie burgers from now on. I have learned to live with the hypocrisy of being "hoomin," but I do so with one eye open. I need science. It's what keeps my bike running and my fuzzies healthy. But along with science, I also need to be able to be "hoomin," with all the thought and compassion that being "hoomin" involves. Here on the FML, it is that fusion of science and compassion that keeps the world spinning for both fuzzies and "hoomins" (and even some mad scientists) alike. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Little Tossers

First off, I want to thank all you people for posting about deaf ferrets and food-tossing. My monkeys, for a few years now, have managed not to toss their food out of the cage like they used to. But apparently my monkeys telepathically read the FML with me and decided that bringing back the tradition of food-tossing was long overdue. I want to thank you people very much for that. Thanks.

I get up a few mornings ago, about two days after the first post about the tossers, and what do you know - food all over the carpet everywhere. Now, it's not like I have great carpet that I care about or anything, but I do have neuropathy in my feet and they are sensitive. My feet have always been tender, but the neuropathy has made them worse. Half asleep, I stumbled my usual path from the bedroom to the coffee pot, but about eight steps out of bed I hit the patch of kibble. I stumbled that stumble you do when your feet say to your brain "get off me" and your knees buckle to oblige without even asking you. Wobbling, I must have looked as if I were walking over hot coals. After cussing a bit and making it to the coffee pot I regained my composure. I looked into the cage to spot the culprit(s), but all I could see were innocent tiny noses waiting to get out. Well so much for that.

It was odd, though. I remembered reading about deaf ferrets and food-tossing and thought to myself what a coincidence? I thought no more of it, however, and made my coffee. Scooter (named that because that's what he rode home on) was eating the kibble from the carpet, but the others were eating the food that we leave in the bowl on the floor by the coffee stand. I tell Scooter "good boy" and give the others an evil eye, and my words have the usual impact - nada. I look at the clock and realize that it's later than I think, and I have to get to work. Yay.

I work as a day manager at Dominos. I work with the general public, and the only thing I will say about the general public is that stupid people have to eat too. You would not believe some of the people who call the store. Of course, you have the kids who call to order pizzas for their neighbors - hee hee. Those calls are the easiest to spot, unbeknownst to them, but they are not the most annoying. I actually like threatening the little bostas and telling them that I got their number off our caller ID and I'm calling the cops. Of course I don't bother the police with these calls. There's enough stupidity in the world without making it official.

It's the braindead-edness, clueless, off in their own little world kind of people that annoy me the most. The ones who want me to deliver a pizza but don't know where they live. How come the person who doesn't live there is always the one who orders the pizza? I ask for an address and I get, "Hold on, hey... dude, what's your address?" This usually goes on for some time, and since I work mainly by myself in the mornings, it puts a damper on any kind of progress I might make. Then there are the people who want "everything" on their pizza. No, you don't. If I put all the toppings we have for pizzas *on* one, it would be gross and cost about 30 bucks for one pie. I have stopped correcting people and just hit the "Extravaganza" button. I get stuff done in a timely manner, my customers get what they want, and the world is a happy place. I could go on and on...

But today I get a relay call. For those of you who don't know what relay calls are, they are calls from deaf people who type their words to an operator who then talks to me and tells me what they are saying. It is supposed to work like the deaf person and I are having an actual conversation, except we aren't. The operator is not supposed to add any of her own commentary and just repeat verbatim what each party is saying to each other. But sometimes it doesn't quite work that way.

The operator asks me to repeat my greeting. "Thank you for choosing Dominos, how can I help you?" I wait. And I wait. The operator comes back on after 20 seconds and asks me to repeat my greeting again. Apparently she missed it again. I repeat it again and wait. Another 30 seconds go by. The operator tells me, "I would like to make an order." It's about three minutes into the call and all we have established is that the caller wants to make an order. It is a long and drawn-out, painful process. I ask the caller, er - the operator, if you're keeping score - what is your address? Another moment of silence on the line. The silence is so long that I eventually ask the operator, "Ma'am, is something wrong?" But the operator doesn't hear that as a question to *her* and types it to the caller. I realize what is happening after a few seconds, but it is too late. It takes the caller a while, but eventually the operator repeats back the caller's response. "Nothing is wrong." I should never have forgotten the golden rule and tried to talk to the operator. Now, I've probably offended my caller. I ask for the address again, now about eight minutes into the call. I hear something for the street name that sounds like "Bonanza" or "Fandango" or something. This is where it gets stupid.

I ask the operator to spell it for me, but even though the operator has just seen the street name on the screen and could just read it off, she types the spelling request to the caller. I understand the operator's loyalty to her primary objective, and I get the whole idea of the deaf being able to talk on the phone with dignity like anyone else, but there is no dignity in this for anyone involved. And to top it off, the caller, annoyed by the whole process, hangs up. Well great. That was a productive use of about twelve minutes. A few minutes later another operator calls back for the same caller. It takes a while, but the pizza gets ordered. All this for one medium thin crust olive pizza in the year 2009.

I am thinking about deafness and how frustrating it must be to be deaf. I think back to earlier this morning and the posts to the FML about deaf ferrets and food-tossing. Slowly it starts coming to me and I make the connections. Deaf ferrets tossing food, deaf callers ordering pizza... I think I get it. I can understand why deaf beings toss things - I wanted to toss some food, myself. My mind is numb, but I make it through yet another day at work. I head home.

I walk through the glass door that leads to my part of the house and see that my monkeys have had another food-tossing frenzy. I look through the bars to spot the culprit, and Stewie looks at me with guilty eyes. I don't think Stewie is deaf, but I wonder about it for a second. Naw, at least I don't think so. But Ed has me wondering, now - how do I find out for sure? Hmm...

I tell Stewie that if he and his buddies decide to toss out any more food for me to step on, well.... I will send them to a mad scientist who asks alot of questions and dissects ferret eardrums for a living - or a hobby or something, I don't know. It makes no impact, of course, thereby proving (make a note, Ed) that ferrets, or at least *this* ferret, is deafer than a doornail. When he wants to be.

And I will probably get to do all this again tomorrow. I can't wait.

Dear Todd and Herbert: Please Hurry

It is 1:19am and I have just started playing one of Eliot Fisk's recordings of Scarlotti sonatas. I am relaxed as I enjoy the first night of my first day off. All is right in my own little world. Sitting in my comfortable chair, I start reading the FML on my laptop. I almost always wait till midnight (Mountain time) for the FML to arrive, and tonight is no different. I am smiling as I get myself a cup of coffee and start scrolling through the posts, first reading about the flooded Washington shelter.

My heart goes out to you, Lacey. It is hard to imagine the logistics of rescuing 100 ferrets from a flood. I will personally ask St. Franky to watch over your ferrets. He listens to me, sometimes. While heartbreaking, reading these kinds of posts reminds me how strong and determined ferret people can be. I skim down a few lines and read on. I feel a distressed look form on my face as I continue to read.

All of a sudden Eliot Fisk sounds out of place. After reading further, I start to think that maybe some cheesy disco music is in order. No longer relaxed, I start to get a queasy feeling in my gut. I know I'm reading the FML, but today it's reading like some kind of ferret porn. Has the FML been hacked by the European porn industry? "Ferret Kisses and Erotic Exhalations?" Whaa..? OK, I can take the "Ferret Kisses" part. Who on this list hasn't kissed their ferret on the nose? But "Erotic Exhalations?" I have no clue what that's about. Not one. I will have to read further if I am to find out, fearful as that may be...

My eyes start to twitch and my synapses spontaneously misfire as they struggle to put the words together. In all of my posts I cannot remember putting both the words "erotic" and "ferret" together in any of them. I am not a prude and would not want to admit how much of a prude I'm not, but it just never occurred to me to eroticize ferrets. I have clever synapses. They know to neutralize any combination of "ferret" and "erotic" that may accidentally occur in my brain and replace those neurochemicals with serotonin or dopamine or something. If my brain is going to spontaneously allow deviant thoughts, I am comforted that at least those thoughts will always be about my own species. I am struggling here, wishing Todd and Herbert would hurry up and get that bulldozer started.

I finally remember to sip my coffee. It is cold now. While my brain was trying to chemically balance disrupted synapses, it forgot to remind me to drink my coffee. Luckily, I have more hot coffee *and* neurochemicals. I will need them.

I finally get through the ferret porn portion of the FML and can't help but notice all the references to 8th, 9th, and 10th graders. What the heck is that all about? I have to read back to figure it out, but it only leaves me with more questions. When I'm posting, am I supposed to dumb it up or dumb it down? Is there some sort of FML guidline to follow that I don't know about? BIG, please let me know if I missed something. Writing for you people is not an easy task.

Oh, and about Sukie's posts: They are very technical sometimes and hard to read (most complicated, important stuff usually is), but I am so glad she posts all the health information she does. Nobody works harder than Sukie to find out all she can to help keep our fuzzies healthy, and I wouldn't think she really needed any advice on how to do that. No complaints here. I got all the way through high school, I've heard Bush talk about the internets, and I've even been to a library once. Sukie, you go girl.

I get myself another cup of coffee and liberally pour Hershey's Chocolate Caramel creamer into it, adding three blue packets of neurotoxins to the brew. The neurotoxins are supposed to replace the sugar part, but I need the chocolate and caramel parts too. Besides, chocolate is supposed to stimulate serotonin and calm stressed synapses. I taste my coffee and pour a bit more creamer into my cup. After today's FML, I could certainly use a bit more. Not to mention that it's yummy, too.

It's now 4am and my poor synapses are worn to nubs. I'm going to go to bed shortly, just as soon as my neurotransmitters are back in balance. When I go to bed I will say nothing to the missus tonight about the ferret porn portion of the FML. No need for both of us to have bad dreams. Tomorrow's another day. Maybe Todd and Herbert will have gotten that bulldozer started...

Miles To Go

It is officially New Year's Day, as I sit here writing this. I have had a long day, and a short nap, and for some reason my mind is still awake.

I have had a *day*. First thing, off to the doc's for the usual 8am diabetes follow-up, which usually includes some kind of banter with my doctor. She looks older than I remember, and a bit tired. I've seen her for years. We have learned to put up with each other. Today, she asked me if was taking the new cholesterol meds that she gave me. Nope, I said, it makes my hands numb and I need my hands. She gives me the eye, and tells me that I really should be taking it. I am thinking about what I have to do later, and I pause before I answer her. I said no, I am not going to chase every shadow that comes my way. She hands me some free meds and I'm out the door. So far, so good...

I take my time. It is my day off, this New Year's Eve, and I only have this left to do. I remind myself that she is not really there, but she *is* really there and I have to go pick her up. I feel an urgency to get there, but I drag my feet. It's cold today, riding my bike to do everything, and I will put on some miles. I make my way to Corrales where she waits at the vet's. She is there. I almost wished she weren't, but then where would she be? Stupid questions, just get going while it's still warm enough not to freeze my fingers to the bone. I have a long way to go. A Robert Frost poem comes to mind - "Miles to go before I sleep." Many miles. I head home.

I hand her to my wife, gently, as if I were handling eggs. My wife won't be doing this with me, even though I know she would if I wanted her to. It is too many miles, and too cold to be riding a bike. Besides, I have to bungee a pick and shovel to where she'd sit. I can do this. I redress in my room, and see dirty socks mixed in with other dirty clothes. They are safe now. I take one of mine, first one I see, and then take one of my wife's - a dirty one with a hole in the heel. I put them in with her. She won't mind dirty socks. Never did before. Any sock was a good sock, as far as she was concerned.

I leave home for the second time, and head for Josie's Mountain. No good way to get there from here. I head north. I would tell you where Josie's Mountain is, except it wouldn't matter, and you couldn't find it anyways, maybe unless you lived here. Josie's Mountain is not the official name of the "mountain" we go to. I named it myself. You can do all kinds of stuff like that if you don't care about "official." I don't think it has a name, but it's falling down, and that's what we like. The mountain is constantly crumbling, and no one would ever be foolish enough to build there. That's a good thing, especially when you have lost count of how many dogs and ferrets you've buried there. (Josie was an old English sheep dog, who died unexpectedly. She was the first one buried on the mountain, so that's what we call it.)

I have to take back roads no matter how I go, so I figure I'll try the shortcut. Bad idea. Snow and mud are not your friend on a bike. My shoes and socks are now wet and muddy. I turn back and head north to almost Santa Fe where I have to make a U-ey and come back south on the back road. It is warmer, now, about 46 degrees or so, and my hands are cold but comfortable. I am not far from where we're going. This is the first time I'll be doing this by myself, but I know I can do this. She has to be with him. She and he came as a pair from two dingbat students who kept them in a garage. He died a few years back, but she made it to almost eight. I wonder if they will remember each other, and my mind distracts itself by asking itself more stupid questions. I see familiar rock formations. We are here.

I park my bike, and unpack. I have her and a pick and shovel to get over the fence without ripping my pants on barbed-wire, hopefully. The road, a winding two-lane, is busier than I remember it. I try hard to sneak in to the scrub, but it's a bit difficult to sneak a three foot long pick with a bright yellow handle anywhere. I don't want people thinking I'm stealing plants or rocks or Native artifacts, for Pete's sake. I hope no one stops. I'm not entirely sure the truth would be better. I listen for the silence on the road, and I make my way.

The temperature is above freezing, but there is snow in the shadows. The ground is not frozen, but soft and wet from the snow. My work is easier than I expected, and I am done in no time at all. It is time to do this now, I tell myself. Gently, I open her sleep sack, as if I might somehow awaken her. Stupid stupid. She looks as if she were sleeping, curled nose to tail. I put the socks underneath her so she'll be comfortable, and I think stupid stupid, but I do it anyways. That's the whole point of all the work of collecting those socks - to be comfortable, isn't it? I distract myself with the stupidity of my thoughts while I avoid the inevitable, but the tears come anyways. I hold her for a long time, and then I let her go. I tell her that my wife and I love her very much, and that I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm sorry about, but I say it anyways. It's what I said when I stroked her head at the vet's as he stopped her suffering. I didn't know then either, really.

Go find him, my little girl. He's close by, and I have to get home. It's cold, and I have miles to go before the sun sets and it gets even colder. My feet are wet and frozen, but I am at peace. I head home.

I get home, tired and numb, but satisfied that it is done. I tell my wife about the trip, and we cry a bit more. I go to my room to change out of my wet clothes so I can warm up. I sit on the bed as I change, and my wife comes in. She is gathering my wet clothes, but stops to tell me about the pile of socks underneath the bed. She has left the pile undisturbed for a few days now, not having the heart to move them. I smile and nod, and we look at each other and understand. We have been together almost twenty years, and there is a new year coming. Understanding just comes. After a short nap, I watch Anderson Cooper drop the ball in New York. Two more hours to go here. I listen to Art Bell welcome the New Year in different time zones. I have to work in the morning, but my mind is wide awake. I wonder when I will run out of clean socks. No matter. Any sock is a good sock.

I will miss my little sock thief, my blessed ward of St. Franky - the wonder ferret who escaped twice and was returned to us by grace both times. I thought she would always be here. That's what luck will do to you, I guess. Make you stupid. I am just getting tired, glad to be done with today. The words of Frost are on my lips, although I don't say it out loud. I have to get up early, and it's way late. Like Frost, I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go.

"...Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow..."
- Robert Frost

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In memory of Bubbles (2008-12-27)
and her mate Scritch