The Absent Animals

In my daily life I interact with Gary the cat, who graciously chose to come home with me from the animal shelter; however, I realize that I can’t forget all of the other brings that are a part of my life.  Every day I try to notice the spider in my potted plants, the sandhill cranes that roam the UCF campus, and even the lizards that dart across the sidewalk like tiny dinosaurs. 

Lizard in a tree in my front yard.

He is most likely calling to a mate by showing off his bright red neck skin.

This project begins with an issue that is near to my heart and my being: the welfare of the animals all around us.  When I say animals, I include even the love bugs that meet their doom on the hood of my car twice a year, the bull frogs that sound from the pond during the summer nights, and even the roaches that visit my house when the rain pours down.

I noticed from an early age that I feel differently about animals, plants and nature in general than most people.  I often wondered why my girl friends were terrified of lizards and snakes, while I found them beautiful and curious.  I grew up with four large sled dogs as my best friends and I often “spoke” with them.  I was surprised when my mother said did not understand the various meanings of our dogs’ body language.  How could she not see that front paws down, tail up meant, “let’s play”?  Now I see that my childhood imagining of the human-animal relationship were a product of the hours I spent in the Florida woods, around ponds, and in trees.  Not a “normal” upbringing but not a bad one either. 

  I have three hermit crabs to thank for teaching me about how even the smallest creatures on our earth live individual lives and have their own experiences.  One day, many years ago, an acquaintance offered his “novelty” pets to anyone who wanted them because he was board with them.  I offered to give them a good home and with a little research I soon discovered that they needed salt and fresh water, a constantly humid environment, and even six inches of sand to dig and molt in.  In return for developing a large habitat, these crabs showed me each of their curious personalities: one liked to clean each of his ear stalks together and another insisted on wiping them one at a time after a meal of fruit.  When I gave them peanut butter the smallest one would wave his antenna in excitement and rush over to eat the snack before the others could.  The largest crab was also the most daring climber who enjoyed hanging upside-down.  Each day I observed more equally thrilling nuances of their different personalities. 

Cliff loved to hang from the top of their wire mesh of the habitat.
Here he is right-side-up for a picture. He was four years old here and
bigger than a golf ball. In the wild hermit crabs can live more than 20 years
and reach the size of a coconut.

What do hermit crabs have to do with early American literature? Well, I began to wonder: Why do we treat some animals as disposable novelties, as curiosities, and only acknowledge their worth in terms of their value to humans.

Where does this paradigm come from? How did we get here? How can we change this?

After college, I moved to California and then Japan.  I could not take my crabs with me so I gave them up for adoption to a fellow hermit crab enthusiast with an even larger habitat. 

One day I asked one of my Japanese coworkers why almost every house had a tiny space before the door with a gate.  She referred to the older houses with gardens in the front and explained that part of the idea is to encounter nature in your daily life. (Gomenasi Suzuki-san if I have sorely misquoted you.) When I traveled to Kyoto (the previous capital of Japan), I learned that the Japanese garden as Americans image, with a large koi pond and flowing waterfalls, was invented because Kyoto is a land-locked area surrounded by mountains and the imperial family missed living near the water.  They wanted nature and water intertwined with the design of the imperial palace—images of pine trees and birds are even carefully painted on the inside panels and ceiling of the palace.

Upon reflection I wondered, why do Americans have a pastoral obsession with going out into nature?  Why can’t they see that nature is here, all around us in our apartments, houses, on our porches, and yes entering our “nature free, civilized” houses?

How did we reach this place of disconnect?  How do we live so separate from beings so important to our being?  

 Unfortunately, Japan is not immune to the human tendency to separate ourselves from animals and nature.  My good friend Myumi-Chan told me about the perception that only pure-bred cats are suitable pets.  Many domestic short hair cats are euthanized simply because they are seen as pests.  I adopted Gary in Japan from one of the few Honshu shelters.  Myumi-Chan, arigato gozaimasu, for sharing your story, your cats’ stories, and your work with The Kankaga Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals with me.    

Gary shortly after we adopted him. Yawning.

 This brings me back to early America though because all of the paths of my life have lead up to the questions:

Why are some animals absent from our lives except as a commodity, a curiosity, a pest, or a companion?  Why can’t Americans see the inherent value in Animals as living beings?  When did we consciously decided to define “America,” why did we conceive our relationship with animals in the manner that we did? Is it too late to leave our colonial mindset behind and finally seek a relationship with animals that is closer to a Native American paradigm?  Can we stop occupying our land and dominating the biota and finally live with it?  

I want to find the beginnings of these beliefs in our national past because if we expose the constructions of these beliefs we can more easily deconstruct them and find a resolution.

                                                                                                   Gary enjoying his morning porch time 

 ~Blake and Gary the Cat who helped me write by napping on my arm.